of  California 
i  Regional 
r  Facility 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT 


KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 


MARY    ROBERTS    RINEHART 


MARY  ROBERTS  RINEHART  RETURNING  FROM  THE  WAR-ZONE 
AND  CAPTAIN  FINCH  ON  S.  S.  "ARABIC." 


KINGS,    QUEENS 
AND  PAWNS 

An  American  Woman  at  the  Front 


BY 

MARY  ROBERTS   RINEHART 


AUTHOR  OF 
"K" 


NEW    YORK 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1915. 
3*  THE  FRANK  A.  MUNBBT  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1915, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DOBAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


College 
Library 


CONTENTS 


~if 

i 


I  T  j  5 


FOR  KING  AND  COUNTRY 

I.  TAKING  A  CHANCE       ..... 

II.  "SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE"    .... 

III.  LA  PANNE    ....... 

IV.  "  'TWAS  A  FAMOUS  VICTORY"    ... 
V.  A  TALK  WITH  THE  KING  OF  THE  BELGIANS 

VI.  THE  CAUSE  ....... 

VII.  THE  STORY  WITH  AN  END  .... 

VIII.  THE  NIGHT  RAID  ON  DUNKIRK  ... 

IX.  No  MAN'S  LAND  .        .        .     •  .        .        . 

X.  THE  IRON   DIVISION    ..... 

XI.  AT  THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  BARRIER          .        . 

XII.  NIGHT  IN  THE  TRENCHES   .... 

XIII.  "WIPERS"       ....... 

XIV.  LADY  DECIES'  STORY    .        .        .        .        . 
XV.  RUNNING  THE  BLOCKADE      .... 

XVI.  THE  MAN  OF  YPRES    ..... 

XVII.  IN  THE  LINE  OF  THE  "MITRAILLEUSE"        . 

XVIII.  FRENCH  GUNS  IN  ACTION   .... 

XIX.  "I  NIBBLE  THEM"        ..... 

XX.  DUNKIRK:    FROM  MY  JOURNAL          .        . 

XXI.  TEA  WITH  THE  AIR-FIGHTERS     .        .        . 

XXII.  THE  WOMEN  AT  THE  FRONT        .        .        . 

XXIII.  THE  LITTLE  "SiCK  AND  SORRY"  HOUSE       . 

XXIV.  FLIGHT          ....... 

XXV.  VOLUNTEERS  AND  PATRIOTS         .        .        . 

XXVI.  A  LUNCHEON  AT  BRITISH  HEADQUARTERS  . 

JCXVII.  A  STRANGE  PARTY        ..... 

JL(_K-  s$t 


5 

9 

23 

32 

39 

50 

63 

71 

80 

87 

101 

114 

122 

135 

154 

164 

176 

190 

200 

212 

216 

219 

230 

238 

247 

255 

260 

271 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XXVIII.  SIR  JOHN  FRENCH 

XXIX.  ALONG  THE  GREAT  BETHUNE  ROAD 

XXX.  THE  MILITARY  SECRET 

XXXI.  QUEEN  MARY  OF  ENGLAND  . 

XXXII.  THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  BELGIANS    . 

'I  XXXIII.  THE  RED  BADGE  OF  MERCY  . 

XXXIV.  IN  TERMS  OF  LIFE  AND  DEATH    . 

XXXV.  THE  LOSING  GAME      . 

XXXVI.  How  AMERICANS  CAN  HELP 

XXXVII.  AN  ARMY  OF  CHILDREN 


PACE 

277 

284 

293 
300 

3i4 
325 
336 
342 
353 
361 


KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 


KINGS,  QUEENS  AND   PAWNS 

FOR  KING  AND  COUNTRY 


TiTARCH  in  England  is  spring.  Early  in  the 
**•••  month  masses  of  snowdrops  lined  the  paths 
in  Hyde  Park.  The  grass  was  green,  the  roads  hard 
and  dry  under  the  eager  feet  of  Kitchener's  great 
army.  For  months  they  had  been  drilling,  struggling 
with  the  intricacies  of  a  new  career,  working  and  wait- 
ing. And  now  it  was  spring,  and  soon  they  would  be 
off.  Some  had  already  gone. 

"Lucky  beggars !"  said  the  ones  who  remained,  and 
counted  the  days. 

And  waiting,  they  drilled.  Everywhere  there  were 
squads :  Scots  in  plaid  kilts  with  khaki  tunics ;  less  pic- 
turesque but  equally  imposing  regiments  in  the  field 
uniform,  with  officers  hardly  distinguishable  from 
their  men.  Everywhere  the  same  grim  but  cheerful 
determination  to  get  over  and  help  the  boys  across  the 
Channel  to  assist  in  holding  that  more  than  four  hun- 
dred miles  of  battle  line  against  the  invading  hosts  of 
Germany. 

Here  in  Hyde  Park  that  spring  day  was  all  the 
panoply  of  war:  bands  playing,  the  steady  tramp  of 
numberless  feet,  the  muffled  clatter  of  accoutrements, 
the  homage  of  the  waiting  crowd.  And  they  deserved 

5 


KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 


homage,  those  fine,  upstanding  men,  many  of  them 
hardly  more  than  boys,  marching  along  with  a  fine, 
full  swing.  There  is  something  magnificent,  a  con- 
tagion of  enthusiasm,  in  the  sight  of  a  great  volunteer 
army.  The  North  and  the  South  knew  the  thrill  dur- 
ing our  own  great  war.  Conscription  may  form  a 
great  and  admirable  machine,  but  it  differs  from  the 
trained  army  of  volunteers  as  a  body  differs  from  a 
soul.  But  it  costs  a  country  heavy  in  griefs,  does  a 
volunteer  army;  for  the  flower  of  the  country  goes. 
That,  too,  America  knows,  and  England  is  learning. 

They  marched  by  gaily.  The  drums  beat.  The 
passers-by  stopped.  Here  and  there  an  open  carriage 
or  an  automobile  drew  up,  and  pale  men,  some  of  them 
still  in  bandages,  sat  and  watched.  In  their  eyes  was 
the  same  flaming  eagerness,  the  same  impatience  to 
get  back,  to  be  loosed  against  the  old  lion's  foes. 

For  King  and  Country ! 

All  through  England,  all  through  France,  all 
through  that  tragic  corner  of  Belgium  which  remains 
to  her,  are  similar  armies,  drilling  and  waiting,  equally 
young,  equally  eager,  equally  resolute.  And  the  thing 
they  were  going  to  I  knew.  I  had  seen  it  in  that 
mysterious  region  which  had  swallowed  up  those  who 
had  gone  before;  in  the  trenches,  in  the  operating, 
rooms  of  field  hospitals,  at  outposts  between  the  con- 
fronting armies  where  the  sentries  walked  hand  in 
hand  with  death.  I  had  seen  it  in  its  dirt  and  horror 
and  sordidness,  this  thing  they  were  going  to. 

War  is  not  two  great  armies  meeting  in  a  clash  and 
frenzy  of  battle.  It  is  much  more  than  that.  War  is 
a  boy  carried  on  a  stretcher,  looking  up  at  God's  blue 
sky  with  bewildered  eyes  that  are  soon  to  close;  war 
is  a  woman  carrying  a  child  that  has  been  wounded  by 


FOR  KING  AND  COUNTRY 


a  shell ;  war  is  spirited  horses  tied  in  burning  buildings 
and  waiting  for  death;  war  is  the  flower  of  a  race, 
torn,  battered,  hungry,  bleeding,  up  to  its  knees  in  icy 
water;  war  is  an  old  woman  burning  a  candle  before 
the  Mater  Dolorosa  for  the  son  she  has  given.  For 
King  and  Country! 


CHAPTER  I 
TAKING  A  CHANCE 


T  STARTED  for  the  Continent  on  a  bright  day 
-*-  early  in  January.  I  was  searched  by  a  woman 
from  Scotland  Yard  before  being  allowed  on  the  plat- 
form. The  pockets  of  my  fur  coat  were  examined; 
my  one  piece  of  baggage,  a  suitcase,  was  inspected;  my 
letters  of  introduction  were  opened  and  read. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Rinehart,"  she  said,  straightening, 
"just  why  are  you  going?" 

I  told  her  exactly  half  of  why  I  was  going.  I  had 
a  shrewd  idea  that  the  question  in  itself  meant  nothing. 
'But  it  gave  her  a  good  chance  to  look  at  me.  She  was 
a  very  clever  woman. 

And  so,  having  been  discovered  to  be  carrying 
neither  weapons  nor  seditious  documents,  and  having 
an  open  and  honest  eye,  I  was  allowed  to  go  through 
the  straight  and  narrow  way  that  led  to  possible  de- 
struction. Once  or  twice,  later  on,  I  blamed  that 
woman  for  letting  me  through.  I  blamed  myself  for 
telling  only  half  of  my  reasons  for  going.  Had  I 
told  her  all  she  would  have  detained  me  safely  in 
England,  where  automobiles  sometimes  go  less  than 
eighty  miles  an  hour,  and  where  a  sharp  bang  means 
a  door  slamming  in  the  wind  and  not  a  shell  exploding, 
where  hostile  aeroplanes  overhead  with  bombs  and  un- 
pleasant little  steel  darts,  were  not  always  between 

9 


io  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

one's  eyes  and  heaven.  She  let  me  through,  and  I 
went  out  on  the  platform. 

The  leaving  of  the  one-o'clock  train  from  Victoria 
Station,  London,  is  an  event  and  a  tragedy.  Wounded 
who  have  recovered  are  going  back;  soldiers  who 
have  been  having  their  week  at  home  are  returning  to 
that  mysterious  region  across  the  Channel,  the  front. 

Not  the  least  of  the  British  achievements  had  been  to 
transport,  during  the  deadlock  of  the  first  winter  of  the 
war,  almost  the  entire  army,  in  relays,  back  to  England 
for  a  week's  rest.  It  had  been  done  without  the  loss  of 
a  man,  across  a  channel  swarming  with  hostile  sub- 
marines. They  came  in  thousands,  covered  with  mud, 
weary,  eager,  their  eyes  searching  the  waiting  crowd 
for  some  beloved  face.  And  those  who  waited  and 
watched  as  the  cars  emptied  sometimes  wept  with  joy, 
and  sometimes  turned  and  went  away  alone. 

Their  week  over,  rested,  tidy,  eyes  still  eager  but 
now  turned  toward  France,  the  station  platform  be- 
side the  one-o'clock  train  was  filled  with  soldiers  going 
back.  There  were  few  to  see  them  off ;  there  were  not 
many  tears.  Nothing  is  more  typical  of  the  courage 
and  patriotism  of  the  British  women  than  that  plat- 
form beside  the  one-o'clock  train  at  Victoria.  The 
crowd  was  shut  out  by  ropes  and  Scotland  Yard  men 
stood  guard.  And  out  on  the  platform,  saying  little, 
because  words  are  so  feeble,  pacing  back  and  forth 
slowly,  went  these  silent  couples.  They  did  not  even 
touch  hands.  One  felt  that  all  the  unselfish  stoicism 
and  restraint  would  crumble  under  the  familiar  touch. 

The  platform  filled.     Sir  Purtab  Singh,  an  Indian 

prince,  with  his  suite,  was  going  back  to  the  English 

,  lines.     I  had  been  a  neighbour  of  his  at  Claridge's 

!  Hotel  in  London.    I  caught  his  eye.    It  was  filled  with 


TAKING  A  CHANCE  11 

cold  suspicion.  It  said  quite  plainly  that  I  could  put 
nothing  over  on  him.  But  whether  he  suspected  me  of 
being  a  newspaper  writer  or  a  spy  I  do  not  know. 

Somehow,  considering  that  the  train  was  carrying 
a  suspicious  and  turbaned  Indian  prince,  any  number 
of  impatient  officers  and  soldiers,  and  an  American 
woman  who  was  carefully  avoiding  the  war  office  and 
trying  to  look  like  a  buyer  crossing  the  Channel  for 
hats,  the  whistle  for  starting  sounded  rather  inade- 
quate. It  was  not  martial.  It  was  thin,  effeminate,  ab- 
surd. And  so  we  were  off,  moving  slowly  past  that  line 
on  the  platform,  where  no  one  smiled ;  where  grief  and 
tragedy,  in  that  one  revealing  moment,  were  written 
deep.  I  shall  never  forget  the  faces  of  the  women  as 
the  train  crept  by. 

And  now  the  train  was  well  under  way.  The  car 
was  very  quiet.  The  memory  of  those  faces  on  the 
platform  was  too  fresh.  There  was  a  brown  and  weary 
officer  across  from  me.  He  sat  very  still,  looking 
straight  ahead.  Long  after  the  train  had  left  Lon- 
don, and  was  moving  smoothly  through  the  English 
fields,  so  green  even  in  winter,  he  still  sat  in  the  same 
attitude. 

I  drew  a  long  breath,  and  ordered  luncheon.  I  was 
off  to  the  war.  I  might  be  turned  back  at  Folkstone. 
There  was  more  than  a  chance  that  I  might  not  get 
beyond  Calais,  which  was  under  military  law.  But  at 
least  I  had  made  a  start. 

This  is  a  narrative  of  personal  experience.  It  makes 
no  pretensions,  except  to  truth.  It  is  pure  reporting, 
a  series  of  pictures,  many  of  them  disconnected,  but 
all  authentic.  It  will  take  a  hundred  years  to  paint 
this  war  on  one  canvas.  A  thousand  observers,  ten 
thousand,  must  record  what  they  have  seen.  To  the 


12  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

reports  of  trained  men  must  be  added  a  bit  here  and 
there  from  these  untrained  observers,  who  without 
military  knowledge,  ignorant  of  the  real  meaning  of 
much  that  they  saw,  have  been  able  to  grasp  only  a 
part  of  the  human  significance  of  the  great  tragedy 
of  Europe. 

I  was  such  an  observer. 

My  errand  was  primarily  humane,  to  visit  the 
hospitals  at  or  near  the  front,  and  to  be  able 
to  form  an  opinion  of  what  supplies  were  needed,  of 
conditions  generally.  Rumour  in  America  had  it  that 
the  medical  and  surgical  situation  was  chaotic.  Bands 
of  earnest  and  well-intentioned  people  were  working 
quite  in  the  dark  as  to  the  conditions  they  hoped  to 
relieve.  And  over  the  hospital  situation,  as  over  the 
military,  brooded  the  impenetrable  silence  that  has 
been  decreed  by  the  Allies  since  the  beginning  of  the 
war.  I  had  met  everywhere  in  America  tales  from 
both  the  German  and  the  Allies'  lines  that  had  as- 
tounded me.  It  seemed  incredible  that  such  conditions 
could  exist  in  an  age  of  surgical  enlightenment;  that, 
even  in  an  unexpected  and  unprepared- for  war,  mod- 
ern organisation  and  efficiency  should  have  utterly 
failed. 

On  the  steamer  crossing  the  Atlantic,  with  the  ship 
speeding  on  her  swift  and  rather  precarious  journey, 
windows  and  ports  carefully  closed  and  darkened,  one 
heard  the  same  hideous  stories :  of  tetanus  in  uncount- 
ed cases,  of  fearful  infections,  of  no  bandages — worst 
of  all,  of  no  anaesthetics. 

I  was  a  member  of  the  American  Red  Cross  Asso- 
ciation, but  I  knew  that  the  great  work  of  the  Ameri- 
can Red  Cross  was  in  sending  supplies.  The  compara- 
tively few  nurses  they  had  sent  to  the  western  field  of 


TAKING  A  CHANCE  13 

war  were  not  at  the  front  or  near  it.  The  British, 
French,  Belgian  and  Dutch  nursing  associations  were  in 
charge  of  the  field  hospitals,  so  far  as  I  could  discover. 

To  see  these  hospitals,  to  judge  and  report  condi- 
tions, then,  was  a  part  of  my  errand.  Only  a  part,  of 
course;  for  I  had  another  purpose.  I  knew  nothing 
of  strategy  or  tactics,  of  military  movements  and 
their  significance.  I  was  not  interested  in  them  par- 
ticularly. But  I  meant  to  get,  if  it  was  possible,  a 
picture  of  this  new  warfare  that  would  show  it  for 
the  horror  that  it  is;  a  picture  that  would  give  pause 
to  that  certain  percentage  of  the  American  people  that 
is  always  so  eager  to  force  a  conservative  government 
into  conflict  with  other  nations. 

There  were  other  things  to  learn.  What  was  France 
doing?  The  great  sister  republic  had  put  a  magnifi- 
cent army  into  the  field.  Between  France  and  the 
United  States  were  many  bonds,  much  reciprocal  good 
feeling.  The  Statue  of  Liberty,  as  I  went  down  the 
bay,  bespoke  the  kindly  feeling  between  the  two  repub- 
lics. I  remembered  Lafayette.  Battle-scarred  France, 
where  liberty  has  fought  so  hard  for  life — what  was 
France  doing?  Not  saying  much,  certainly.  Fight- 
ing, surely,  as  the  French  have  always  fought.  For 
certainly  England,  with  her  gallant  but  at  that  time 
meagre  army,  was  not  fighting  alone  the  great  war. 

But  there  were  three  nations  fighting  the  allied 
cause  in  the  west.  What  had  become  of  the  heroic 
Belgian  Army?  Was  it  resting  on  its  laurels?  Hav- 
ing done  its  part,  was  it  holding  an  honorary  position 
in  the  great  line-up  ?  Was  it  a  fragment  or  an  army, 
an  entity  or  a  memory? 

The  newspapers  were  full  of  details  that  meant 
nothing:  names  of  strange  villages,  movements  back- 


14  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

ward  and  forward  as  the  long  battle  line  bent  and 
straightened  again.  But  what  was  really  happening 
beyond  the  barriers  that  guarded  the  front  so  jeal- 
ously? How  did  the  men  live  under  these  new  and 
strange  conditions?  What  did  they  think?  Or  fear? 
Or  hope? 

Great  lorries  and  transports  went  out  from  the 
French  coast  towns  and  disappeared  beyond  the  hori- 
zon; motor  ambulances  and  hospital  trains  came  in 
with  the  grim  harvest.  Men  came  and,  like  those  who 
had  gone  before,  they  too  went  out  and  did  not  come 
back.  "Somewhere  in  France,"  the  papers  said.  Such 
letters  as  they  wrote  came  from  "somewhere  in 
France."  What  was  happening  then,  over  there,  be- 
yond the  horizon,  "somewhere  in  France"? 

And  now  that  I  have  been  beyond  the  dead  line  many 
of  these  questions  have  answered  themselves.  France 
is  saying  nothing,  and  fighting  magnificently.  Belgium, 
with  two-thirds  of  her  army  gone,  has  still  fifty  thou- 
sand men,  and  is  preparing  two  hundred  thousand 
more. 

Instead  of  merely  an  honorary  position,  she  is  hold- 
ing tenaciously,  against  repeated  onslaughts  and  under 
horrible  conditions,  the  flooded  district  between  Nieu- 
port  and  Dixmude.  England,  although  holding  only 
thirty-two  miles  of  front,  beginning  immediately  south 
of  Ypres,  is  holding  that  line  against  some  of  the  most 
furious  fighting  of  the  war,  and  is  developing,  at  the 
same  time,  an  enormous  fighting  machine  for  the 
spring  movement.* 

The  British  soldier  is  well  equipped,  well  fed,  com- 

*  This  is  written  of  conditions  in  the  early  spring  of  1915. 
(Although  the  relative  positions  of  the  three  armies  are  the  same, 
the  British  are  ho/ding  a  considerably  longer  frontage. 


TAKING  A  CHANCE  if 

fortably  transported.  When  it  is  remembered  that 
England  is  also  assisting  to  equip  all  the  allied  armies/ 
it  will  be  seen  that  she  is  doing  much  more  than  hold- 
ing the  high  seas. 

To  see  the  wounded,  then ;  to  Mlbw  the  lines  of  hos- 
pital trains  to  that  mysterious  region,  the  front  j  t$ 
see  the  men  in  the  trenches  and  in  their  billets;  to 
observe  their  morale,  the  conditions  under  which  they; 
lived — and  died.  It  was  too  late  to  think  of  the  cause 
of  the  war  or  of  the  justice  or  injustice  of  that  cause. 
It  will  never  be  too  late  for  its  humanities  and  inhu- 
manities, its  braveries  and  its  occasional  flinchings,  its 
tragedies  and  its  absurdities. 

It  was  through  the  assistance  of  the  Belgian  Red 
Cross  that  I  got  out  of  England  and  across  the  Chan- 
nel. I  visited  the  Anglo-Belgian  Committee  at  its 
quarters  in  the  Savoy  Hotel,  London,  and  told  them 
of  my  twofold  errand.  They  saw  at  once  the  point  I 
made.  America  was  sending  large  amounts  of  money 
and  vast  quantities  of  supplies  to  the  Belgians  on  both 
sides  of  the  line.  What  was  being  done  in  interned 
Belgium  was  well  known.  But  those  hospital  supplies 
and  other  things  shipped  to  Northern  France  were 
swallowed  up  in  the  great  silence.  The  war  would  not 
be  ended  in  a  day  or  a  month. 

"Let  me  see  conditions  as  they  really  are,"  I  said. 
"It  is  no  use  telling  me  about  them.  Let  me  see  them. 
Then  I  can  tell  the  American  people  what  they  have 
already  done  in  the  war  zone,  and  what  they  may  be 
asked  to  do." 

Through  a  piece  of  good  luck  Doctor  Depage,  the 
president,  had  come  across  the  Channel  to  a  confer- 
ence, and  was  present.  A  huge  man,  in  the  uniform 
of  a  colonel  of  the  Belgian  Army,  with  a  great  mill- 


16  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

tary  cape,  he  seemed  to  fill  and  dominate  the  little 
room. 

They  conferred  together  in  rapid  French. 

"Where  do  you  wish  to  go  ?"  I  was  asked. 

"Everywhere." 

"Hospitals  are  not  always  cheerful  to  visit." 

"I  am  a  graduate  of  a  hospital  training-school. 
Also  a  member  of  the  American  Red  Cross." 

They  conferred  again. 

"Madame  will  not  always  be  comfortable — orer 
there." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  comfortable,"  I  said  bravely. 

Another  conference.  The  idea  was  a  new  one;  it 
took  some  mental  readjustment.  But  their  cause  was 
just,  and  mingled  with  their  desire  to  let  America 
know  what  they  were  doing  was  a  justifiable  pride. 
They  knew  what  I  was  to  find  out — that  one  of  the 
finest  hospitals  in  the  world,  as  to  organisation,  equip- 
ment and  results,  was  situated  almost  under  the  guns 
of  devastated  Nieuport,  so  close  that  the  roar  of  ar- 
tillery is  always  in  one's  ears. 

I  had  expected  delays,  a  possible  refusal.  Every- 
one had  encountered  delays  of  one  sort  and  another. 
Instead,  I  found  a  most  courteous  and  agreeable 
permission  given.  I  was  rather  dazed.  And  when, 
a  day  or  so  later,  through  other  channels,  I  found 
myself  in  possession  of  letters  to  the  Baron  de  Bro- 
queville,  Premier  and  Minister  of  War  for  Belgium, 
and  to  General  Melis,  Inspector  General  of  the  Bel- 
gian Army  Medical  Corps,  I  realised  that,  once  in 
Belgian  territory,  my  troubles  would  probably  be  at 
an  end. 

For  getting  out  of  England  I  put  my  faith  in  a  card 
given  me  by  the  Belgian  Red  Cross.  There  are  only 


TAKING  A  CHANCE  17 

four  such  cards  in  existence,  and  mine  was  number 
four. 

From  Calais  to  La  Panne !  If  I  could  get  to  Calais 
I  could  get  to  the  front,  for  La  Panne  is  only  four 
miles  from  Nieuport,  where  the  confronting  lines  of 
trenches  begin.  But  Calais  was  under  military  law. 
Would  I  be  allowed  to  land  ? 

Such  writers  as  reached  there  were  allowed  twenty- 
four  hours,  and  were  then  shipped  back  across  the 
Channel  or  to  some  innocuous  destination  south.  Yet 
this  little  card,  if  all  went  well,  meant  the  privilege  of 
going  fifty  miles  northeast  to  the  actual  front.  True, 
it  gave  no  chance  for  deviation.  A  mile,  a  hundred 
feet  off  the  straight  and  tree-lined  road  north  to  La 
Panne,  and  I  should  be  arrested.  But  the  time  to  think 
about  that  would  come  later  on. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  have  never  been  arrested. 
Except  in  the  hospitals,  I  was  always  practically  where 
I  had  no  business  to  be.  I  had  a  room  in  the  Hotel 
des  Arcades,  in  Dunkirk,  for  weeks,  where,  just  round 
the  corner,  the  police  had  closed  a  house  for  a  month 
as  a  punishment  because  a  room  had  been  rented  to  a 
correspondent.  The  correspondent  had  been  sentenced 
to  five  years'  imprisonment,  but  had  been  released  after 
five  weeks.  I  was  frankly  a  writer.  I  was  almost  ag- 
gressively a  writer.  I  wrote  down  carefully  and 
openly  everything  I  saw.  I  made,  but  of  course  under 
proper  auspices  and  with  the  necessary  permits,  excur- 
sions to  the  trenches  from  Nieuport  to  the  La  Bassee 
region  and  Bethune,  along  Belgian,  French  and  Eng- 
lish lines,  always  openly,  always  with  a  notebook.  And 
nothing  happened ! 

As  my  notebook  became  filled  with  data  I  grew  more 
and  more  anxious,  while  the  authorities  grew  more 


18  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

calm.  Suppose  I  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Germans! 
It  was  a  large  notebook,  filled  with  much  information. 
il  could  never  swallow  the  thing,  as  officers  are  sup- 
posed to  swallow  the  password  slips  in  case  of  capture. 
After  a  time  the  general  spy  alarm  got  into  my  blood. 
I  regarded  the  boy  who  brought  my  morning  coffee 
with  suspicion,  and  slept  with  my  notes  under  my  pil- 
low. And  nothing  happened! 

I  had  secured  my  passport  vise  at  the  French  and 
Belgian  Consulates,  and  at  the  latter  legation  was  able 
also  to  secure  a  letter  asking  the  civil  and  military 
authorities  to  facilitate  my  journey.  The  letter  had 
been  requested  for  me  by  Colonel  Depage. 

It  was  almost  miraculously  easy  to  get  out  of  Eng- 
land. It  was  almost  suspiciously  easy.  My  passport 
frankly  gave  the  object  of  my  trip  as  "literary  work." 
Perhaps  the  keen  eyes  of  the  inspectors  who  passed  me 
onto  the  little  channel  boat  twinkled  a  bit  as  they  ex- 
amined it 

The  general  opinion  as  to  the  hopelessness  of  my 
trying  to  get  nearer  than  thirty  miles  to  the  front  had 
so  communicated  itself  to  me  that  had  I  been  turned 
back  there  on  the  quay  at  Folkstone,  I  would  have  been 
angry,  but  hardly  surprised. 

Not  until  the  boat  was  out  in  the  channel  did  I  feel 
sure  that  I  was  to  achieve  even  this  first  leg  of  the 
journey. 

Even  then,  all  was  not  well.  With  Folkstone  and 
the  war  office  well  behind,  my  mind  turned  to  sub- 
marines as  a  sunflower  to  the  sun.  Afterward  I  found 
that  the  thing  to  do  is  not  to  think  about  submarines. 
To  think  of  politics,  or  shampoos,  or  of  people  one 
does  not  like,  but  not  of  submarines.  They  are  like 
ghosts  in  that  respect.  They  are  perfectly  safe  and 


TAKING  A  CHANCE  19 

entirely  innocuous  as  long  as  one  thinks  of  something 
else. 

And  something  went  wrong  almost  immediately. 

It  was  imperative  that  I  get  to  Calais.  And  the  boat, 
which  had  intended  making  Calais,  had  had  a  report  of 
submarines  and  headed  for  Boulogne.  This  in  itself 
was  upsetting.  To  have,  as  one  may  say,  one's  teeth 
set  for  Calais,  and  find  one  is  biting  on  Boulogne,  is  not 
agreeable.  I  did  not  want  Boulogne.  My  pass  was 
from  Calais.  I  had  visions  of  waiting  in  Boulogne,  of 
growing  old  and  grey  waiting,  or  of  trying  to  walk 
to  Calais  and  being  turned  back,  of  being  locked  in  a 
cow  stable  and  bedded  down  on  straw.  For  fear  of 
rousing  hopes  that  must  inevitably  be  disappointed, 
again  nothing  happened. 

There  were  no  other  women  on  board :  only  British 
officers  and  the  turbaned  and  imposing  Indians.  The 
day  was  bright,  exceedingly  cold.  The  boat  went  at 
top  speed,  her  lifeboats  slung  over  the  sides  and  ready 
for  lowering.  There  were  lookouts  posted  every- 
where. I  did  not  think  they  attended  to  their  business. 
Every  now  and  then  one  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at 
the  sky  or  at  the  passengers.  I  felt  that  I  should  re- 
port him.  What  business  had  he  to  look  away  from 
the  sea?  I  went  out  to  the  bow  and  watched  for 
periscopes.  There  were  black  things  floating  about.  1 
decided  that  they  were  not  periscopes,  but  mines.  We 
went  very  close  to  them.  They  proved  to  be  buoys 
marking  the  Channel. 

I  hated  to  take  my  eyes  off  the  sea,  even  for  a  mo- 
ment. If  you  have  ever  been  driven  at  sixty  miles  an 
hour  over  a  bad  road,  and  felt  that  if  you  looked  away 
the  car  would  go  into  the  ditch,  and  if  you  will  multi- 
ply that  by  the  exact  number  of  German  submarines 


20  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

and  then  add  the  British  Army,  you  will  know  how  I 
felt 

Afterward  I  grew  accustomed  to  the  Channel  cross- 
ing. I  made  it  four  times.  It  was  necessary  for  me 
to  cross  twice  after  the  eighteenth  of  February,  when 
the  blockade  began.  On  board  the  fated  Arabic,  later 
sunk  by  a  German  submarine,  I  ran  the  blockade  again 
to  return  to  America.  It  was  never  an  enjoyable  thing 
to  brave  submarine  attack,  but  one  develops  a  sort  of 
philosophy.  It  is  the  same  with  being  under  fire.  The 
first  shell  makes  you  jump.  The  second  you  speak  of, 
commenting  with  elaborate  carelessness  on  where  it 
fell.  This  is  a  gain  over  shell  number  one,  when  you 
cannot  speak  to  save  your  life.  The  third  shell  you 
ignore,  and  the  fourth  you  forget  about — if  you  can. 

Seeing  me  alone  the  captain  asked  me  to  the  canvas 
shelter  of  the  bridge.  I  proceeded  to  voice  my  protest 
at  our  change  of  destination.  He  apologised,  but  we 
continued  to  Boulogne. 

"What  does  a  periscope  look  like?"  I  asked.  "I 
mean,  of  course,  from  this  boat?" 

"Depends  on  how  much  of  it  is  showing.  Some- 
times it's  only  about  the  size  of  one  of  those  gulls. 
It's  hard  to  tell  the  difference." 

I  rather  suspect  that  captain  now.  There  were  many 
gulls  sitting  on  the  water.  I  had  been  looking  for 
something  like  a  hitching  post  sticking  up  out  of  the 
water.  Now  my  last  vestige  of  pleasure  and  confi- 
dence was  gone.  I  went  almost  mad  trying  to  watch 
all  the  gulls  at  once. 

"What  will  you  do  if  you  see  a  submarine?' 

"Run  it  down,"  said  the  captain  calmly.  "That's 
the  only  chance  we've  got.  That  is,  if  we  see  the  boat 
itself.  These  little  Channel  steamers  make  about 


TAKING  A  CHANCE  21 

twenty-six  knots,  and  the  submarine,  submerged,  only 
about  half  of  that.  Sixteen  is  the  best  they  can  do 
on  the  surface.  Run  them  down  and  sink  them,  that's 
my  motto." 

"What  about  a  torpedo?" 

"We  can  see  them  coming.  It  will  be  hard  to  tor- 
pedo this  boat — she  goes  too  fast." 

Then  and  there  he  explained  to  me  the  snowy  wake 
of  the  torpedo,  a  white  path  across  the  water;  the 
mechanism  by  which  it  is  kept  true  to  its  course;  the 
detonator  that  explodes  it.  From  nervousness  I  shift- 
ed to  enthusiasm.  I  wanted  to  see  the  white  wake. 
I  wanted  to  see  the  Channel  boat  dodge  it.  My  sport- 
ing blood  was  up.  I  was  willing  to  take  a  chance.  I 
felt  that  if  there  was  a  difficulty  this  man  would  escape 
it.  I  turned  and  looked  back  at  the  khaki-coloured 
figures  on  the  deck  below. 

Taking  a  chance!  They  were  all  taking  a  chance. 
And  there  was  one,  an  officer,  with  an  empty  right 
sleeve.  And  suddenly  what  for  an  enthusiastic  mo- 
ment, in  that  bracing  sea  air,  had  seemed  a  game, 
became  the  thing  that  it  is,  not  a  game,  but  a  deadly 
and  cruel  war.  I  never  grew  accustomed  to  the  tragedy 
of  the  empty  sleeve.  And  as  if  to  accentuate  this 
thing  toward  which  I  was  moving  so  swiftly,  the 
British  Red  Cross  ship,  from  Boulogne  to  Folkstone, 
came  in  sight,  hurrying  over  with  her  wounded,  a 
great  white  boat,  garnering  daily  her  harvest  of 
wounded  and  taking  them  "home." 

Land  now — a  grey-white  line  that  is  the  sand  dunes 
at  Ambleteuse,  north  of  Boulogne.  I  knew  Amble- 
teuse.  It  gave  a  sense  of  strangeness  to  see  the  old 
tower  at  the  water's  edge  loom  up  out  of  the  sea.  The 
sight  of  land  was  comforting,  but  vigilance  was  not 


22  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

relaxed.  The  attacks  of  submarines  have  been  mostly 
made  not  far  outside  the  harbours,  and  only  a  few 
days  later  that  very  boat  was  to  make  a  sensational 
escape  just  outside  the  harbour  of  Boulogne. 

All  at  once  it  was  twilight,  the  swift  dusk  of  the 
sea.  The  boat  warped  in  slowly.  I  showed  my  pass- 
port, and  at  last  I  was  on  French  soil.  North  and 
east,  beyond  the  horizon,  lay  the  thing  I  had  come  to 
see. 


MANY  people  have  seen  Boulogne  and  have  writ- 
ten of  what  they  have  seen:  the  great  hotels 
that  are  now  English  hospitals;  the  crowding  of 
transport  wagons;  the  French  signs,  which  now  have 
English  signs  added  to  them ;  the  mixture  of  uniforms 
— English  khaki  and  French  blue;  the  white  steamer 
waiting  at  the  quay,  with  great  Red  Crosses  on  her 
snowy  funnels.  Over  everything,  that  first  winter  of 
the  war,  hung  the  damp  chill  of  the  Continental  winter, 
that  chill  that  sinks  in  and  never  leaves,  that  penetrates 
fur  and  wool  and  eats  into  the  spirit  like  an  acid. 

I  got  through  the  customs  without  much  difficulty. 
I  had  a  large  package  of  cigarettes  for  the  soldiers,  for 
given  his  choice,  food  or  a  smoke,  the  soldier  will 
choose  the  latter.  At  last  after  much  talk  I  got  them 
in  free  of  duty.  And  then  I  was  footfree. 

Here  again  I  realise  that  I  should  have  encountered 
great  difficulties.  I  should  at  least  have  had  to  walk 
to  Calais,  or  to  have  slept,  as  did  one  titled  English- 
woman I  know,  in  a  bathtub.  I  did  neither.  I  took 
a  first-class  ticket  to  Calais,  and  waited  round  the 
station  until  a  train  should  go. 

And  then  I  happened  on  one  of  the  pictures  that 
will  stand  out  always  in  my  mind.  Perhaps  it  was 
because  I  was  not  yet  inured  to  suffering;  certainly  I 

23 


24  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

was  to  see  many  similar  scenes,  much  more  of  the 
flotsam  and  jetsam  of  the  human  tide  that  was  sweep- 
ing back  and  forward  over  the  flat  fields  of  France  and 
Flanders. 

A  hospital  train  had  come  in,  a  British  train.  The 
twilight  had  deepened  into  night.  Under  the  flickering 
arc  lamps,  in  that  cold  and  dismal  place,  the  train 
came  to  a  quiet  stop.  Almost  immediately  it  began  to 
unload.  A  door  opened  and  a  British  nurse  alighted. 
Then  slowly  and  painfully  a  man  in  a  sitting  position 
slid  forward,  pushing  himself  with  his  hands,  his  two 
bandaged  feet  held  in  the  air.  He  sat  at  the  edge  of 
the  doorway  and  lowered  his  feet  carefully  until  they 
hung  free. 

"Frozen  feet  from  the  trenches,"  said  a  man  stand- 
ing beside  me. 

The  first  man  was  lifted  down  and  placed  on  a 
truck,  and  his  place  was  filled  immediately  by  another. 
As  fast  as  one  man  was  taken  another  came.  The 
line  seemed  endless.  One  and  all,  their  faces  ex- 
pressed keen  apprehension,  lest  some  chance  awkward- 
ness should  touch  or  jar  the  tortured  feet.  Ten  at  a 
time  they  were  wheeled  away.  And  still  they  came 
and  came,  until  perhaps  two  hundred  had  been  taken 
off.  But  now  something  else  was  happening.  Another 
car  of  badly  wounded  was  being  unloaded.  Through  i 
the  windows  could  be  seen  the  iron  framework  on 
which  the  stretchers,  three  in  a  tier,  were  swung. 

Halfway  down  the  car  a  wide  window  was  opened, 
and  two  tall  lieutenants,  with  four  orderlies,  took  their 
places  outside.  It  was  very  silent.  Orders  were  given 
in  low  tones.  The  muffled  rumble  of  the  trucks  carry- 
ing the  soldiers  with  frozen  feet  was  all  that  broke  the 
quiet,  and  soon  they,  too,  were  gone;  and  there  re- 


"SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE"  25 

mained  only  the  six  men  outside,  receiving  with  hands 
as  gentle  as  those  of  women  the  stretchers  so  cau- 
tiously worked  over  the  window  sill  to  them.  One 
by  one  the  stretchers  came;  one  by  one  they  were 
added  to  the  lengthening  line  that  lay  prone  on  the 
stone  flooring  beside  the  train.  There  was  not  a  jar, 
not  an  unnecessary  motion.  One  great  officer,  very 
young,  took  the  weight  of  the  end  as  it  came  toward 
him,  and  lowered  it  with  marvellous  gentleness  as  the 
others  took  hold.  He  had  a  trick  of  the  wrist  that 
enabled  him  to  reach  up,  take  hold  and  lower  the 
stretcher,  without  freeing  his  hands.  He  was  mar- 
vellously strong,  marvellously  tender. 

The  stretchers  were  laid  out  side  by  side.  Their 
occupants  did  not  speak  or  move.  It  was  as  if  they 
had  reached  their  limit  of  endurance.  They  lay  with 
closed  eyes,  or  with  impassive,  upturned  faces,  swathed 
in  their  brown  blankets  against  the  chill.  Here  and 
there  a  knitted  neck  scarf  had  been  loosely  wrapped 
about  a  head.  All  over  America  women  were  knitting 
just  such  scarfs. 

And  still  the  line  grew.  The  car  seemed  inex- 
haustible of  horrors.  And  still  the  young  lieutenant 
with  the  tender  hands  and  the  strong  wrists  took  the 
onus  of  the  burden,  the  muscles  of  his  back  swelling 
under  his  khaki  tunic.  If  I  were  asked  to  typify  the 
attitude  of  the  British  Army  and  of  the  British  people 
toward  their  wounded,  I  should  point  to  that  boy. 
Nothing  that  I  know  of  in  history  can  equal  the  care 
the  English  are  taking  of  their  wounded  in  this,  the 
great  war.  They  have,  of  course,  the  advantage  of 
the  best  nursing  system  in  Europe. 

France  is  doing  her  best,  but  her  nursing  had  always 
been  in  the  hands  of  nuns,  and  there  are  not  nearly 


26  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

enough  nuns  in  France  to-day  to  cope  with  the  situa-  < 
tion.  Belgium,  with  some  of  the  greatest  sur- 
geons in  the  world,  had  no  organised  nursing  sys- 
tern  when  war  broke  out.  She  is  largely  dependent 
apparently  on  the  notable  work  of  her  priests,  and  on 
English  and  Dutch  nurses. 

When  my  train  drew  out,  the  khaki-clad  lieutenant 
and  his  assistants  were  still  at  work.  One  car  was 
emptied.  They  moved  on  to  a  second.  Other  willing 
hands  were  at  work  on  the  line  that  stretched  along 
the  stone  flooring,  carrying  the  Wounded  to  ambu- 
lances, but  the  line  seemed  hardly  to  shrink.  Always 
the  workers  inside  the  train  brought  another  stretcher 
and  yet  another.  The  rumble  of  the  trucks  had  ceased. 
It  was  very  cold.  I  could  not  look  any  longer. 

It  took  three  hours  to  go  the  twenty  miles  to  Calais, 
from  six  o'clock  to  nine.  I  wrapped  myself  in  my  fur 
coat.  Two  men  in  my  compartment  slept  comfort- 
ably. One  clutched  a  lighted  cigarette.  It  burned 
down  close  to  his  fingers.  It  was  fascinating  to  watch. 
But  just  when  it  should  have  provided  a  little  excite- 
ment he  wakened.  It  was  disappointing. 

We  drifted  into  conversation,  the  gentleman  of  the 
cigarette  and  I.  He  was  an  Englishman  from  a  Lon- 
don newspaper.  He  was  counting  on  his  luck  to  get 
him  into  Calais  and  his  wit  to  get  him  out.  He  told 
me  his  name.  Just  before  I  left  France  I  heard  of  a 
highly  philanthropic  and  talented  gentleman  of  the 
same  name  who  was  unselfishly  going  through  the 
hospitals  as  near  the  front  as  he  could,  giving  a  mov- 
ing-picture entertainment  to  the  convalescent  soldiers. 
I  wish  him  luck ;  he  deserves  it.  And  I  am  sure  he  is 
giving  a  good  entertainment.  His  wit  had  got  him 
out  of  Calais! 


"SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE"  27 

Calais  at  last,  and  the  prospect  of  food.  Still 
greater  comfort,  here  my  little  card  became  operative. 
I  was  no  longer  a  refugee,  fleeing  and  hiding  from  the 
stern  eyes  of  Lord  Kitchener  and  the  British  War 
Office.  I  had  come  into  my  own,  even  to  supper. 
1  I  saw  no  English  troops  that  night.  The  Calais 
'  station  was  filled  with  French  soldiers.  The  first 
impression,  after  the  trim  English  uniform,  was  not 
particularly  good.  They  looked  cold,  dirty,  unutter- 
ably weary.  Later,  along  the  French  front,  I  revised 
my  early  judgment.  But  I  have  never  reconciled  my- 
self to  the  French  uniform,  with  its  rather  slovenly 
cut,  or  to  the  tendency  of  the  French  private  soldier 
to  allow  his  beard  to  grow.  It  seems  a  pity  that  both 
French  and  Belgians,  magnificent  fighters  that  they 
are,  are  permitted  this  slackness  in  appearance.  There 
are  no  smarter  officers  anywhere  than  the  French  and 
Belgian  officers,  but  the  appearance  of  their  troops 
en  masse  is  not  imposing. 

Later  on,  also,  a  close  inspection  of  the  old  French 
uniform  revealed  it  as  made  of  lighter  cloth  than  the 
English,  less  durable,  assuredly  less  warm.  The  new 
grey-blue  uniform  is  much  heavier,  but  its  colour  is 
questionable.  It  should  be  almost  invisible  in  the 
early  morning  mists,  but  against  the  green  of  spring 
'and  summer,  or  under  the  magnesium  flares — called 
1  by  the  English  "starlights" — with  which  the  Germans 
illuminate  the  trenches  of  the  Allies  during  the  night, 
it  appeared  to  me  that  it  would  be  most  conspicuous. 

I  have  before  me  on  my  writing  table  a  German 
fatigue  cap.  Under  the  glare  of  my  electric  lamp  it 
fades,  loses  colour  and  silhouette,  is  eclipsed.  I  have 
tried  it  in  sunlight  against  grass.  It  does  the  same 
thing.  A  piece  of  the  same  efficient  management  that 


28  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

has  distributed  white  smocks  and  helmet  covers  among 
the  German  troops  fighting  in  the  rigours  of  Poland,  to 
render  them  invisible  against  the  snow! 

Calais  then,  with  food  to  get  and  an  address  to  find. 
For  Doctor  Depage  had  kindly  arranged  a  haven  for 
me.  Food,  of  a  sort,  I  got  at  last.  The  hotel  dining 
room  was  full  of  officers.  Near  me  sat  fourteen  mem- 
bers of  the  aviation  corps,  whose  black  leather  coa. 
bore,  either  on  left  breast  or  left  sleeve,  the  outspread 
wings  of  the  flying  division.  There  were  fifty  people, 
perhaps,  and  two  waiters,  one  a  pale  and  weary  boy. 
The  food  was  bad,  but  the  crisp  French  bread  was 
delicious.  Perhaps  nowhere  in  the  world  is  the  bread 
average  higher  than  in  France — just  as  in  America, 
where  fancy  breads  are  at  their  best,  the  ordinary 
wheat  loaf  is,  taking  the  average,  exceedingly  poor. 

Calais  was  entirely  dark.  The  Zeppelin  attack, 
which  took  place  four  or  five  weeks  later,  was  antici- 
pated, and  on  the  night  of  my  arrival  there  was  a 
general  feeling  that  the  birthday  of  the  German 
Emperor  the  next  day  would  produce  something  spec- 
tacular in  the  way  of  an  air  raid.  That  explained,, 
possibly,  the  presence  so  far  from  the  front — fifty 
miles  from  the  nearest  point — of  so  many  flying  men. 

As  my  French  conversational  powers  are  limited,  I 
had  some  difficulty  in  securing  a  vehicle.  This  was 
explained  later  by  the  discovery  the  next  day  that  no 
one  is  allowed  on  the  streets  of  Calais  after  ten  o'clock. 
Nevertheless  I  secured  a  hack,  and  rode  blithely  and 
unconsciously  to  the  house  where  I  was  to  spend  the 
night.  I  have  lost  the  address  of  that  house.  I  wish 
I  could  remember  it,  for  I  left  there  a  perfectly  good 
and  moderately  expensive  pair  of  field  glasses.  I 
have  been  in  Calais  since,  and  have  had  the  wild  idea 


"SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE"  29 

of  driving  about  the  streets  until  I  find  it  and  my 
glasses.  But  a  close  scrutiny  of  the  map  of  Calais  has 
deterred  me.  Age  would  overtake  me,  and  I  should 
'still  be  threading  the  maze  of  those  streets,  seeking 
an  old  house  in  an  old  garden,  both  growing  older  all 
the  time. 

A  very  large  house  it  was,  large  and  cold.  I  found 
that  I  was  expected ;  but  an  air  of  unreality  hung  over 
,  ^yerything.  I  met  three  or  four  most  kindly  Belgian 
people  of  whom  I  knew  nothing  and  who  knew  noth- 
ing of  me.  I  did  not  know  exactly  why  I  was  there, 
and  I  am  sure  the  others  knew  less.  I  went  up  to 
my  room  in  a  state  of  bewilderment.  It  was  a  huge 
room  without  a  carpet,  and  the  tiny  fire  refused  to 
light.  There  was  a  funeral  wreath  over  the  bed,  with 
the  picture  of  the  deceased  woman  in  the  centre.  It 
was  bitterly  cold,  and  there  was  a  curious  odor  of 
disinfectants  in  the  air. 

By  a  window  was  a  narrow  black  iron  bed  without 
a  mattress.  It  looked  sinister.  Where  was  the  mat- 
tress? Had  its  last  occupant  died  and  the  mattress 
been  burned?  I  sniffed  about  it;  the  odour  of  disin- 
fectant unmistakably  clung  to  it.  I  do  not  yet  know 
the  story  of  that  room  or  of  that  bed.  Perhaps  there 
is  no  story.  But  I  think  there  is.  I  put  on  my  fur 
coat  and  went  to  bed,  and  the  lady  of  the  wreath  came 
in  the  night  and  talked  French  to  me. 

I  rose  in  the  morning  at  seven  degrees  Centigrade 
and  dressed.  At  breakfast  part  of  the  mystery  was 
cleared  up.  The  house  was  being  used  as  a  residence 
by  the  chief  surgeon  of  the  Ambulance  Jeanne  d'Arc, 
the  Belgian  Red  Cross  hospital  in  Calais,  and  by  others 
interested  in  the  Red  Cross  work.  It  was  a  dormitory 
also  for  the  English  nurses  from  the  ambulance.  This 


30  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

explained,  naturally,  my  being  sent  there,  the  some- 
what casual  nature  of  the  furnishing  and  the  odour  of 
disinfectants.  It  does  not,  however,  explain  the  lady 
of  the  wreath  or  the  black  iron  bed. 

After  breakfast  some  of  the  nurses  came  in  from 
night  duty  at  the  ambulance.  I  saw  their  bedroom, 
one  directly  underneath  mine,  with  four  single  beds 
and  no  pretence  at  comfort.  It  was  cold,  icy  cold. 

"You  are  very  courageous,"  I  said.  "Surely  this  is 
not  very  comfortable.  I  should  think  you  might  at 
least  have  a  fire." 

"We  never  think  of  a  fire,"  a  nurse  said  simply. 
"The  best  we  can  do  seems  so  little  to  what  the  men 
are  doing,  doesn't  it?" 

She  was  not  young.  Some  one  told  me  she  had  a 
son,  a  boy  of  nineteen,  in  the  trenches.  She  did  not 
speak  of  him.  But  I  have  wondered  since  what  she 
must  feel  during  those  grisly  hours  of  the  night  when 
the  ambulances  are  giving  up  their  wounded  at  the 
hospital  doors.  No  doubt  she  is  a  tender  nurse,  for  in 
every  case  she  is  nursing  vicariously  that  nineteen- 
year-old  boy  of  hers  in  the  trenches. 

That  morning  I  visited  the  various  Calais  hospitals. 
It  was  a  bright  morning,  sunny  and  cold.  Lines  of 
refugees  with  packs  and  bundles  were  on  their  way 
to  the  quay. 

The  frightful  congestion  of  the  autumn  of  1914  was 
over,  but  the  hospitals  were  all  full.  They  were  sur- 
gical hospitals,  typhoid  hospitals,  hospitals  for  injured 
civilians,  hospital  boats.  One  and  all  they  were  pre- 
paring as  best  they  could  for  the  mighty  conflict  of  the 
spring,  when  each  side  exoected  to  make  its  great  on- 
ward movement. 

As  it  turned  out,  the  terrible  fighting  of  the  spring 


"SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE"  31 

failed  to  break  the  deadlock,  but  the  preparations  made 
by  the  hospitals  were  none  too  great  for  the  sad  by- 
products of  war. 

The  Belgian  hospital  question  was  particularly 
grave.  To-day,  several  months  later,  it  is  still  a  matter 
for  anxious  thought.  In  case  the  Germans  retire  from 
Belgium  the  Belgians  will  find  themselves  in  their  own 
land,  it  is  true,  but  a  land  stripped  of  everything.  It 
is  for  this  contingency  that  the  Allies  are  preparing. 
In  whichever  direction  the  line  moves,  the  arrange- 
ments that  have  served  during  the  impasse  of  the  past 
year  will  no  longer  answer.  Portable  field  hospital 
pavilions,  with  portable  equipment,  will  be  required. 
The  destructive  artillery  fire,  with  its  great  range,  will 
leave  no  buildings  intact  near  the  battle  line. 

One  has  only  to  follow  the  present  line,  fringed  as 
it  is  with  destroyed  or  partially  destroyed  towns,  to 
realise  what  the  situation  will  be  if  a  successful  of- 
fensive movement  on  the  part  of  the  Allies  drives  the 
battle  line  back.  Artillery  fire  leaves  no  buildings 
standing.  Even  the  roads  become  impassable, — masses 
of  broken  stone  with  gaping  holes,  over  which  ambu- 
lances travel  with  difficulty. 


CHAPTER  III 
LA  PANNE 


Calais  to  La  Panne  is  fifty  miles.  Calais 
is  under  military  law.  It  is  difficult  to  enter, 
almost  impossible  to  leave  in  the  direction  in  which  I 
wished  to  go.  But  here  again  the  Belgian  Red  Cross 
achieved  the  impossible.  I  was  taken  before  the 
authorities,  sharply  questioned,  and  in  the  end  a  pink 
slip  was  passed  over  to  the  official  of  the  Red  Cross 
who  was  to  take  me  to  the  front.  I  wish  I  could  have 
secured  that  pink  slip,  if  only  because  of  its  apparent 
fragility  and  its  astounding  wearing  qualities.  All 
told,  between  Calais  and  La  Panne  it  was  inspected — 
texture,  weight  and  reading  matter,  front  and  reverse 
sides,  upside  down  and  under  glass — by  some  several 
hundred  sentries,  officials  and  petty  highwaymen.  It 
suffered  everything  but  attack  by  bayonet.  I  found 
myself  repeating  that  way  to  madness  of  Mark 
Twain's : 

Punch,  brothers,  punch  with  care, 
Punch  in  the  presence  of  the  passenjaire, 
A  pink  trip  slip  for  a  five-cent  fare — 

and  so  on. 

Northeast  then,  in  an  open  grey  car  with  "Belgian 
Red  Cross"  on  each  side  of  the  machine.  Northeast 
in  a  bitter  wind,  into  a  desolate  and  almost  empty 

32 


LA  PANNE  33 


country  of  flat  fields,  canals  and  roads  bordered  by 
endless  rows  of  trees  bent  forward  like  marching  men. 
Northeast  through  Gravelines,  once  celebrated  of  the 
Armada  and  now  a  manufacturing  city.  It  is  curious 
to  think  that  a  part  of  the  Armada  went  ashore  at 
Gravelines,  and  that,  by  the  shifting  of  the  English 
Channel,  it  is  now  two  miles  inland  and  connected 
with  the  sea  by  a  ship  canal.  Northeast  still,  to  Dun- 
kirk. 

From  Calais  to  Gravelines  there  had  been  few  signs 
of  war — an  occasional  grey  lorry  laden  with  supplies 
for  the  front;  great  ambulances,  also  grey,  and  with 
a  red  cross  on  the  top  as  a  warning  to  aeroplanes ;  now 
and  then  an  armoured  car.  At  Gravelines  the  country 
took  on  a  more  forbidding  appearance.  Trenches 
flanked  the  roads,  which  were  partly  closed  here  and 
there  by  overlapping  earthworks,  so  that  the  car  must 
turn  sharply  to  the  left  and  then  to  the  right  to  get 
through.  At  night  the  passage  is  closed  by  barbed 
wire.  In  one  place  a  bridge  was  closed  by  a  steel 
rope,  which  a  sentry  lowered  after  another  operation 
on  the  pink  slip. 

The  landscape  grew  more  desolate  as  the  daylight 
began  to  fade,  more  desolate  and  more  warlike.  There 
were  platforms  for  lookouts  here  and  there  in  the 
trees,  prepared  during  the  early  days  of  the  war  be- 
fore the  German  advance  was  checked.  And  there 
were  barbed-wire  entanglements  in  the  fields.  I  had 
always  thought  of  a  barbed-wire  entanglement  as 
probably  breast  high.  It  was  surprising  to  see  them 
only  from  eighteen  inches  to  two  feet  in  height.  It 
was  odd,  too,  to  think  that  most  of  the  barbed  wire 
had  been  made  in  America.  Barbed  wire  is  playing 
a  tremendous  part  in  this  war.  The  English  say  that 


34  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

the  Boers  originated  this  use  for  it  in  the  South 
African  War.  Certainly  much  tragedy  and  an  occa- 
sional bit  of  grim  humour  attach  to  its  present  use. 

With  the  fortified  town  of  Dunkirk — or  Dunkerque 
— came  the  real  congestion  of  war.  The  large  square 
of  the  town  was  filled  with  soldiers  and  marines.  Here 
again  were  British  uniforms,  British  transports  and 
ambulances.  As  a  seaport  for  the  Allied  Armies  in 
the  north,  it  was  bustling  with  activity.  The  French 
and  Belgians  predominated,  with  a  sprinkling  of 
Spahis  on  horseback  and  Turcos.  An  air  of  activity, 
of  rapid  coming  and  going,  filled  the  town.  Despatch 
riders  on  motor  cycles,  in  black  leather  uniforms  with 
black  leather  hoods,  flung  through  the  square  at  reck- 
less speed.  Battered  automobiles,  their  glass  shattered 
by'shells,  mud  guards  crumpled,  coated  with  clay  and 
riddled  with  holes,  were  everywhere,  coming  and  go- 
ing at  the  furious  pace  I  have  since  learned  to  associate 
with  war. 

And  over  all,  presiding  in  heroic  size  in  the  centre 
of  the  Square,  the  statue  of  Jean  Bart,  Dunkirk's 
privateer  and  pirate,  now  come  into  his  own  again,  was 
watching  with  interest  the  warlike  activities  of  the 
Square.  Things  have  changed  since  the  days  of  Jean 
Bart,  however.  The  cutlass  that  hangs  by  his  side 
would  avail  him  little  now.  The  aeroplane  bombs  that 
drop  round  him  now  and  then,  and  the  processions  of 
French  "seventy-five"  guns  that  rumble  through  the 
Square,  must  puzzle  him.  He  must  feel  rather  a 
piker  in  this  business  of  modern  war. 

Dunkirk  is  generally  referred  to  as  the  "front."  It 
is  not,  however.  It  is  near  enough  for  constant  visits 
from  German  aeroplanes,  and  has  been  partially  de^ 


LA  PANNE  35: 


stroyed  by  German  guns,  firing  from  a  distance  of 
more  than  twenty  miles.  But  the  real  line  begins 
fifteen  miles  farther  along  the  coast  at  Nieuport. 

So  we  left  Dunkirk  at  once  and  continued  toward 
La  Panne.  A  drawbridge  in  the  wall  guards  the  road 
out  of  the  city  in  that  direction.  And  here  for  the 
first  time  the  pink  slip  threatened  to  fail  us.  The  Reef 
Cross  had  been  used  by  spies  sufficiently  often  to  cover 
us  with  cold  suspicion.  And  it  was  worse  than  that. 
Women  were  not  allowed,  under  any  circumstances, 
to  go  in  that  direction — a  new  rule,  being  enforced 
with  severity.  My  little  card  was  produced  and  eyed 
with  hostility. 

My  name  was  assuredly  of  German  origin.  I  got 
out  my  passport  and  pointed  to  the  picture  on  it.  It 
had  been  taken  hastily  in  Washington  for  passport 
purposes,  and  there  was  a  cast  in  the  left  eye.  I  have 
no  cast  in  the  left  eye.  Timid  attempts  to  squint 
with  that  eye  failed. 

But  at  last  the  officer  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
let  us  go.  The  two  sentries  who  had  kept  their  rifles 
pointed  at  me  lowered  them  to  a  more  comfortable 
angle.  A  temporary  sense  of  cold  down  my  back 
retired  again  to  my  feet,  whence  it  had  risen.  We 
went  over  the  ancient  drawbridge,  with  its  chains  by 
which  it  may  be  raised,  and  were  free.  But  our  depar- 
ture was  without  enthusiasm.  I  looked  back.  Some 
eight  sentries  and  officers  were  staring  after  us  and 
muttering  among  themselves. 

Afterward  I  crossed  that  bridge  many  times.  They 
grew  accustomed  to  me,  but  they  evidently  thought  me 
quite  mad.  Always  they  protested  and  complained, 
until  one  day  the  word  went  round  that  the  American 


36  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

lady  had  been  received  by  the  King.  After  that  I  was 
covered  with  the  mantle  of  royalty.  The  sentries  sa- 
luted as  I  passed.  I  was  of  the  elect. 

There  were  other  sentries  until  the  Belgian  frontier 
was  passed.  After  that  there  was  no  further  chal- 
lenging. The  occasional  distant  roar  of  a  great  gun 
could  be  heard,  and  two  French  aeroplanes,  winging 
home  after  a  reconnaissance  over  the  German  lines, 
hummed  overhead.  Where  between  Calais  and  Dun- 
kirk there  had  been  an  occasional  peasant's  cart  in  the 
road  or  labourer  in  the  fields,  now  the  country  was 
deserted,  save  for  long  lines  of  weary  soldiers  going  to 
their  billets,  lines  that  shuffled  rather  than  marched. 
There  was  no  drum  to  keep  them  in  step  with  its 
melancholy  throbbing.  Two  by  two,  heads  down, 
laden  with  intrenching  tools  in  addition  to  their  regu- 
lar equipment,  grumbling  as  the  car  forced  them  off 
the  road  into  the  mud  that  bordered  it,  swathed  beyond 
recognition  against  the  cold  and  dampness,  in  the  twi- 
light those  lines  of  shambling  men  looked  grim,  de- 
termined, sinister. 

"We  are  going  through  Fumes,"  said  my  com- 
panion. "It  has  been  shelled  all  day,  but  at  dusk  they 
usually  stop.  It  is  out  of  our  way,  but  you  will  like 
to  see  it." 

I  said  I  was  perfectly  willing,  but  that  I  hoped  the 
Germans  would  adhere  to  their  usual  custom.  I  felt 
all  at  once  that,  properly  conserved,  a  long  and  happy 
lift  might  lie  before  me.  I  mentioned  that  I  was  a 
person  of  no  importance,  and  that  my  death  would 
be  of  no  military  advantage.  And,  as  if  to  emphasise 
my  peaceful  fireside  at  home,  and  dinner  at  seven 
o'clock  with  candles  on  the  table,  the  fire  re-com- 
menced. 


LA  PANNE  37 


"Artillery,"  I  said  with  conviction,  "seems  to  me 
barbarous  and  unnecessary.  But  in  a  moving  auto- 
mobile  " 

It  was  a  wrong  move.  He  hastened  to  tell  me  of 
people  riding  along  calmly  in  automobiles,  and  of  the 
next  moment  there  being  nothing  but  a  hole  in  the 
road.  Also  he  told  me  how  shrapnel  spread,  scatter- 
ing death  over  large  areas.  If  I  had  had  an  idea  of 
dodging  anything  I  saw  coming  it  vanished. 

We  went  into  the  little  town  of  Furnes.  Nothing 
happened.  Only  one  shell  was  fired,  and  I  have  no 
idea  where  it  fell.  The  town  was  a  dead  town,  its 
empty  streets  full  of  brick  and  glass.  I  grew  quite 
calm  and  expressed  some  anxiety  about  the  tires.  Al- 
though my  throat  was  dry,  I  was  able  to  enunciate 
clearly!  We  dared  not  light  the  car  lamps,  and  our 
progress  was  naturally  slow. 

Furnes  is  not  on  the  coast,  but  three  miles  inland. 
So  we  turned  sharp  to  the  left  toward  La  Panne,  our 
destination,  a  small  seaside  resort  in  times  of  peace, 
but  now  the  capital  of  Belgium.  It  was  dark  now, 
and  the  roads  were  congested  with  the  movements  of 
troops,  some  going  to  the  trenches,  those  out  of  the 
trenches  going  back  to  their  billets  for  twenty-four 
hours'  rest,  and  the  men  who  had  been  on  rest  moving 
up  as  pickets  or  reserves.  Even  in  the  darkness  it 
was  easy  to  tell  the  rested  men  from  the  ones  newly 
relieved.  Here  were  mostly  Belgians,  and  the  little 
Belgian  soldier  is  a  cheery  soul.  He  asks  very  little, 
is  never  surly.  A  little  food,  a  little  sleep — on  straw, 
in  a  stable  or  a  church — and  he  is  happy  again.  Over 
and  over,  as  I  saw  the  Belgian  Army,  I  was  impressed 
with  its  cheerfulness  under  unparalleled  conditions. 

Most  of  them  have  been  fighting  since  Liege.    Of 


38  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  men  only  fifty  thousand 
remain.  Their  ration  is  meagre  compared  with  the 
English  and  the  French,  their  clothing  worn  and 
ragged.  They  are  holding  the  inundated  district  be- 
tween Nieuport  and  Dixmude,  a  region  of  constant 
struggle  for  water-soaked  trenches,  where  outposts  at 
the  time  I  was  there  were  being  fought  for  through 
lakes  of  icy  water  filled  with  barbed  wire,  where  their 
wounded  fall  and  drown.  And  yet  they  are  inveter- 
ately  cheerful.  A  brave  lot,  the  Belgian  soldiers,  brave 
and  uncomplaining !  It  is  no  wonder  that  the  King  of 
Belgium  loves  them,  and  that  his  eyes  are  tragic  as  he 
looks  at  them. 

La  Panne  at  last,  a  straggling  little  town  of  one 
street  and  rows  of  villas  overlooking  the  sea.  La 
Panne,  with  the  guns  of  Nieuport  constantly  in  one's 
ears,  and  the  low,  red  flash  of  them  along  the  sandy 
beach;  with  ambulances  bringing  in  their  wounded 
now  that  night  covers  their  movements;  with  English 
gunboats  close  to  the  shore  and  a  searchlight  playing 
over  the  sea.  La  Panne,  with  just  over  the  sand 
dunes  the  beginning  of  that  long  line  of  trenches  that 
extends  south  and  east  and  south  again,  four  hun- 
dred and  fifty  miles  of  death. 

It  was  two  weeks  and  four  days  since  I  had  left 
America,  and  less  than  thirty  hours  since  I  boarded 
the  one-o'clock  train  at  Victoria  Station,  London. 
Later  on  I  beat  the  thirty-hour  record  twice,  once  go- 
ing from  the  Belgian  front  to  England  in  six  hours, 
and  another  time  leaving  the  English  lines  at  Bethune, 
motoring  to  Calais,  and  arriving  in  my  London  hotel 
the  same  night.  Cars  go  rapidly  over  the  French  roads, 
and  the  distance,  measured  by  miles,  is  not  great. 
Measured  by  difficulties,  it  is  a  different  story. 


CHAPTER  IV 
"  'TWAS  A  FAMOUS  VICTORY" 


FROM  MY  JOURNAL  : 

LA  PANNE,  January  25th,  10  P.M. 

1AM  at  the  Belgian  Red  Cross  hospital  to-night. 
Have  had  supper  and  have  been  given  a  room  on 
the  top  floor,  facing  out  over  the  sea. 

This  is  the  base  hospital  for  the  Belgian  lines.  The 
men  come  here  with  the  most  frightful  injuries.  As 
I  entered  the  building  to-night  the  long  tiled  corridor 
was  filled  with  the  patient  and  quiet  figures  that  are 
the  first  fruits  of  war.  They  lay  on  portable  cots, 
waiting  their  turn  in  the  operating  rooms,  the  white 
coverings  and  bandages  not  whiter  than  their  faces. 

ii  P.M.  The  Night  Superintendent  has  just  been  in 
to  see  me.  She  says  there  is  a  baby  here  from  Furnes 
with  both  legs  off,  and  a  nun  who  lost  an  arm  as  she 
was  praying  in  the  garden  of  her  convent.  The  baby 
will  live,  but  the  nun  is  dying. 

She  brought  me  a  hot-water  bottle,  for  I  am  still 
chilled  from  my  long  ride,  and  sat  down  for  a 
moment's  talk.  She  is  English,  as  are  most  of  the 
nurses.  She  told  me  with  tears  in  her  eyes  of  a  Dutch 
Red  Cross  nurse  who  was  struck  by  a  shell  in  Furnes, 
two  days  ago,  as  she  crossed  the  street  to  her  hospital, 
which  was  being  evacuated.  She  was  brought  here. 

"Her  leg  was  shattered,"  she  said.    "So  young  and 

39 


40  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

so  pretty  she  was,  too!  One  of  the  surgeons  was  in 
love  with  her.  It  seemed  as  if  he  could  not  let  her 
die." 

How  terrible!    For  she  died. 

"But  she  had  a  casket,"  the  Night  Superintendent 
hastened  to  assure  me.  "The  others,  of  course,  do 
not.  And  two  of  the  nurses  were  relieved  to-day  to 
go  with  her  to  the  grave."  v 

1  wonder  if  the  young  surgeon  went.    I  wonder 

The  baby  is  near  me.    I  can  hear  it  whimpering. 
Midnight.    A  man  in  the  next  room  has  started  to 

moan.  Good  God,  what  a  place!  He  has  shell  in 
both  lungs,  and  because  of  weakness  had  to  be  oper- 
ated on  without  an  anaesthetic. 

2  A.M.    I  cannot  sleep.    He  is  trying  to  sing  "Tip- 
perary." 

English  battleships  are  bombarding  the  German  bat- 
teries at  Nieuport  from  the  sea.  The  windows  rattle 
all  the  time. 

6  A.M.  A  new  day  now.  A  grey  and  forbidding 
dawn.  Sentries  every  hundred  yards  along  the  beach 
under  my  window.  The  gunboats  are  moving  out  to 
sea.  A  number  of  French  aeroplanes  are  scouting 
overhead. 

The  man  in  the  next  room  is  quiet. 

Imagine  one  of  our  great  seaside  hotels  stripped  of 
its  bands,  its  gay  crowds,  its  laughter.  Paint  its  many 
windows  white,  with  a  red  cross  in  the  centre  of  each 
one.  Imagine  its  corridors  filled  with  wounded  men, 
its  courtyard  crowded  with  ambulances,  its  parlours 
occupied  by  convalescents  who  are  blind  or  hopelessly 
maimed,  its  card  room  a  chapel  trimmed  with  the 
panoply  of  death.  For  bathchairs  and  bathers  on  the 


"  'TWAS  A  FAMOUS  VICTORY"  41 

sands  substitute  long  lines  of  weary  soldiers  drilling 
in  the  rain  and  cold.  And  over  all  imagine  the  unceas- 
ing roar  of  great  guns.  Then,  but  feebly,  you  will 
have  visualised  the  Ambulance  Ocean  at  La  Panne  as 
I  saw  it  that  first  winter  of  the  war. 

The  town  is  built  on  the  sand  dunes,  and  is  not 
unlike  Ostend  in  general  situation;  but  it  is  hardly 
more  than  a  village.  Such  trees  as  there  are  grow  out 
of  the  sand,  and  are  twisted  by  the  winds  from  the  sea. 
Their  trunks  are  green  with  smooth  moss.  And  over 
the  dunes  is  long  grass,  then  grey  and  dry  with  win- 
ter, grass  that  was  beaten  under  the  wind  into  waves 
that  surge  and  hiss. 

The  beach  is  wide  and  level.  There  is  no  surf.  The 
sea  comes  in  in  long,  flat  lines  of  white  that  wash 
unheralded  about  the  feet  of  the  cavalry  horses  drill- 
ing there.  Here  and  there  a  fisherman's  boat  close 
to  the  line  of  villas  marks  the  limit  of  high  tide; 
marks  more  than  that;  marks  the  fisherman  who  has 
become  a  soldier;  marks  the  end  of  the  peaceful  occu- 
pations of  the  little  town;  marks  the  change  from  a 
sea  that  was  a  livelihood  to  a  sea  that  has  become  a 
menace  and  a  hidden  death. 

The  beach  at  La  Panne  has  its  story.  There  are 
guns  there  now,  waiting.  The  men  in  charge  of  them 
wait,  and,  waiting,  shiver  in  the  cold.  And  just  a  few 
minutes  away  along  the  sands  there  was  a  house  built 
by  a  German,  a  house  whose  foundation  was  a  ce- 
mented site  for  a  gun.  The  house  is  destroyed  now. 
It  had  been  carefully  located,  strategically,  and  built 
long  before  the  war  began.  A  gun  on  that  foundation 
would  have  commanded  Nieuport. 

Here,  in  six  villas  facing  the  sea,  live  King  Albert 
and  Queen  Elisabeth  and  their  household,  and  here  the 


42  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

Queen,  grief-stricken  at  the  tragedy  that  has  over- 
taken her  innocent  and  injured  people,  visits  the  hospi- 
tal daily. 

La  Panne  has  not  been  bombarded.  Hostile  aero- 
planes are  always  overhead.  The  Germans  undoubt- 
edly know  all  about  the  town;  but  it  has  not  been 
touched.  I  do  not  believe  that  it  will  be.  For  one 
thing,  it  is  not  at  present  strategically  valuable.  Much 
more  important,  Queen  Elisabeth  is  a  Bavarian  prin- 
cess by  birth.  Quite  aside  from  both  reasons,  the  out- 
cry from  the  civilised  world  which  would  result  from 
injury  to  any  member  of  the  Belgian  royal  house,  with 
the  present  world-wide  sympathy  for  Belgium,  would 
make  such  an  attack  inadvisable. 

And  yet  who  knows?  So  much  that  was  considered 
fundamental  in  the  ethics  of  modern  warfare  has  gone 
by  the  board ;  so  certainly  is  this  war  becoming  one  of 
reprisals,  of  hate  and  venom,  that  before  this  is  pub- 
lished La  Panne  may  have  been  destroyed,  or  its  evacu- 
ation by  the  royal  family  have  been  decided. 

The  contrast  between  Brussels  and  La  Panne  is  the 
contrast  between  Belgium  as  it  was  and  as  it  is.  The 
last  time  I  was  in  Belgium,  before  this  war,  I  was  in 
Brussels.  The  great  modern  city  of  three-quarters  of 
a  million  people  had  grown  up  round  the  ancient 
capital  of  Brabant.  Its  name,  which  means  "the  dwell- 
ing on  the  marsh,"  dates  from  the  tenth  century.  The 
huge  Palais  de  Justice  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
buildings  in  the  world. 

Now  in  front  of  that  great  building  German  guns 
are  mounted,  and  the  capital  of  Belgium  is  a  fishing 
village  on  the  sand  dunes.  The  King  of  Belgium  has 
exchanged  the  magnificent  Palais  du  Roi  for  a  small 
and  cheaply  built  house — not  that  the  democratic 


"  'TWAS  A  FAMOUS  VICTORY"  43 

young  King  of  Belgium  cares  for  palaces.  But  the 
contrast  of  the  two  pictures  was  impressed  on  me  that 
winter  morning  as  I  stood  on  the  sands  at  La  Panne 
and  looked  at  the  royal  villa.  All  round  were  sentries. 
The  wind  from  the  sea  was  biting.  It  set  the  long 
grey  grass  to  waving,  and  blew  the  fine  sand  in  clouds 
about  the  feet  of  the  cavalry  horses  filing  along  the 
beach. 

I  was  quite  unmolested  as  I  took  photographs  of  the 
stirring  scenes  about.  It  was  the  first  daylight  view  I 
had  had  of  the  Belgian  soldiers.  These  were  men  on 
their  twenty- four  hours'  rest,  with  a  part  of  the  new 
army  that  was  being  drilled  for  the  spring  campaign. 
The  Belgian  system  keeps  a  man  twenty-four  hours 
in  the  trenches,  gives  him  twenty-four  hours  for 
rest  well  back  from  the  firing  line,  and  then,  mov- 
ing him  up  to  picket  or  reserve  duty,  holds  him  another 
twenty-four  hours  just  behind  the  trenches.  The 
English  system  is  different.  Along  the  English  front 
men  are  four  days  in  the  trenches  and  four  days  out. 
All  movements,  of  course,  are  made  at  night. 

The  men  I  watched  that  morning  were  partly. on 
rest,  partly  in  reserve.  They  were  shabby,  cold  and 
cheery.  I  created  unlimited  surprise  and  interest. 
They  lined  up  eagerly  to  be  photographed.  One  group 
I  took  was  gathered  round  a  sack  of  potatoes,  paring 
raw  potatoes  and  eating  them.  For  the  Belgian  sol- 
dier is  the  least  well  fed  of  the  three  armies  in  the 
western  field.  When  I  left,  a  good  Samaritan  had 
sent  a  case  or  two  of  canned  things  to  some  of  the 
regiments,  and  a  favoured  few  were  being  initiated 
into  the  joys  of  American  canned  baked  beans.  They 
were  a  new  sensation.  To  watch  the  soldiers  eat  them 
was  a  joy  and  a  delight. 


44  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

I  wish  some  American  gentleman,  tiring  of  storing 
up  his  treasures  only  in  heaven,  would  send  a  can  or 
a  case  or  a  shipload  of  baked  beans  to  the  Belgians. 
This  is  alliterative,  but  earnest.  They  can  heat  them 
in  the  trenches  in  the  cans;  they  can  thrive  on  them 
and  fight  on  them.  And  when  the  cans  are  empty 
they  can  build  fires  in  them  or  hang  them,  filled  with 
stones,  on  the  barbed-wire  entanglements  in  front  of 
the  trenches,  so  that  they  ring  like  bells  on  a  herd  of 
cows  to  warn  them  of  an  impending  attack. 

And  while  we  are  on  this  subject,  I  wish  some  of 
the  women  who  are  knitting  scarfs  would  stop,*  now 
that  winter  is  over,  and  make  jelly  and  jam  for  the 
brave  and  cheerful  little  Belgian  army.  I  am  aware 
that  it  is  less  pleasant  than  knitting.  It  cannot  be 
taken  to  lectures  or  musicales.  One  cannot  make  jam 
between  the  courses  of  a  luncheon  or  a  dinner  party, 
or  during  the  dummy  hand  at  bridge.  But  the  men 
have  so  little — unsweetened  coffee  and  black  bread  for 
breakfast;  a  stew  of  meat  and  vegetables  at  mid-day, 
taken  to  them,  when  it  can  be  taken,  but  carried  miles 
from  where  it  is  cooked,  and  usually  cold.  They 
pour  off  the  cold  liquor  and  eat  the  unpalatable  residue. 
Supper  is  like  breakfast  with  the  addition  of  a  ration 
of  minced  meat  and  potatoes,  also  cold  and  not  at- 
tractive at  the  best. 

Sometimes  they  have  bully  beef.  I  have  eaten  bully 
beef,  which  is  a  cooked  and  tinned  beef,  semi-gelat- 
inous. The  Belgian  bully  beef  is  drier  and  tougher 

*  This  was  written  in  the  spring.  By  the  time  this  book  is 
published  knitted  woollens  will  be  again  in  demand.  Socks  and 
mittens,  abdominal  belts  and  neck  scarfs  are  much  liked.  A 
soldier  told  me  he  liked  his  scarf  wide,  and  eight  feet  long, 
so  he  can  carry  it  around  his  body  and  fasten  it  in  the  back. 


"  'TWAS  A  FAMOUS  VICTORY"  45 

than  the  English.  It  is  not  bad;  indeed,  it  is  quite 
good.  But  the  soldier  needs  variety.  The  English 
know  this.  Their  soldiers  have  sugar,  tea,  jam  and 
cheese. 

If  I  were  asked  to-day  what  the  Belgian  army  needs, 
now  that  winter  is  over  and  they  need  no  longer  shiver 
in  their  thin  clothing,  I  should  say,  in  addition  to  the 
surgical  supplies  that  are  so  terribly  necessary,  port- 
able kitchens,  to  give  them  hot  and  palatable  food. 
Such  kitchens  may  be  bought  for  two  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars,  with  a  horse  to  draw  them.  They  are 
really  sublimated  steam  cookers,  with  the  hot  water 
used  to  make  coffee  when  they  reach  the  trenches. 
I  should  say,  then,  surgical  supplies  and  hospital  equip- 
ment, field  kitchens,  jams  of  all  sorts,  canned  beans, 
cigarettes  and  rubber  boots!  A  number  of  field  kitch- 
ens have  already  been  sent  over.  A  splendid  English- 
man attached  to  the  Belgian  Army  has  secured  funds 
for  a  few  more.  But  many  are  needed.  I  have  seen  a 
big  and  brawny  Belgian  officer,  with  a  long  record  of 
military  bravery  behind  him,  almost  shed  tears  over 
the  prospect  of  one  of  these  kitchens  for  his  men. 

I  took  many  pictures  that  morning — of  dogs,  three 
abreast,  hauling  mitrailleuse,  the  small  and  deadly 
quick-firing  guns,  from  the  word  mitraille,  a  hail  of 
balls;  of  long  lines  of  Belgian  lancers  on  their  un- 
dipped and  shaggy  horses,  each  man  carrying  an 
eight-foot  lance  at  rest;  of  men  drilling  in  broken 
boots,  in  wooden  shoes  stuffed  with  straw,  in  carpet 
slippers.  I  was  in  furs  from  head  to  foot — the  same 
fur  coat  that  has  been,  in  turn,  lap  robe,  bed  clothing 
and  pillow — and  I  was  cold.  These  men,  smiling  into 
my  camera,  were  thinly  dressed,  with  bare,  ungloved 
hands.  But  they  were  smiling. 


46  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

Afterward  I  learned  that  many  of  them  had  no 
underclothing,  that  the  blue  tunics  and  trousers  were 
all  they  had.  Always  they  shivered,  but  often  also 
they  smiled.  Many  of  them  had  fought  since  Liege; 
most  of  them  had  no  knowledge  of  their  families  on 
the  other  side  of  the  line  of  death.  When  they  return 
to  their  country,  what  will  they  go  back  to?  Their 
homes  are  gone,  their  farm  buildings  destroyed,  their 
horses  and  cattle  killed. 

But  they  are  a  courageous  people,  a  bravely  cheery 
people.  For  every  one  of  them  that  remained  there, 
two  had  gone,  either  to  death,  captivity  or  serious  in- 
jury. They  were  glad  to  be  alive  that  morning  on  the 
sands  of  La  Panne,  under  the  incessant  roaring  of  the 
guns.  The  wind  died  down ;  the  sun  came  out.  It  was 
January.  In  two  months,  or  three,  it  would  be  spring 
and  warm.  In  two  months,  or  three,  they  confidently 
expected  to  be  on  the  move  toward  their  homes  again. 

What  mattered  broken  boots  and  the  mud  and  filth 
of  their  trenches?  What  mattered  the  German  aero- 
plane overhead?  Or  cold  and  insufficient  food?  Or 
the  wind  ?  Nothing  mattered  but  death,  and  they  still 
lived.  And  perhaps,  beyond  the  line 

That  afternoon,  from  the  Ambulance  Ocean,  a 
young  Belgian  officer  was  buried. 

It  was  a  bright,  sunny  afternoon,  but  bitterly  cold. 
Troops  were  lined  up  before  the  hospital  in  the  square ; 
a  band,  too,  holding  its  instruments  with  blue  and  un- 
gloved fingers. 

He  had  been  a  very  brave  officer,  and  very  young. 
The  story  of  what  he  had  done  had  been  told  about. 
So,  although  military  funerals  are  many,  a  handful 
of  civilians  had  gathered  to  see  him  taken  away  to  the 
crowded  cemetery.  The  three  English  gunboats  were 


'  'TWAS  A  FAMOUS  VICTORY"  47 

patrolling  the  sea.  Tall  Belgian  generals,  in  high 
blue-and-gold  caps  and  great  cape  overcoats,  met  in 
the  open  space  and  conferred. 

The  dead  young  officer  lay  in  state  in  the  little 
chapel  of  the  hospital.  Ten  tall  black  standards  round 
him  held  burning  candles,  the  lights  of  faith.  His  uni- 
form, brushed  of  its  mud  and  neatly  folded,  lay  on  top 
of  the  casket,  with  his  pathetic  cap  and  with  the  sword 
that  would  never  lead  another  charge.  He  had  fought 
very  hard  to  live,  they  said  at  the  hospital.  But  he 
had  died. 

The  crowd  opened,  and  the  priest  came  through.  He 
wore  a  purple  velvet  robe,  and  behind  him  came  his 
deacons  and  four  small  acolytes  in  surplices.  Up  the 
steps  went  the  little  procession.  And  the  doors  of  the 
hospital  closed  behind  it. 

The  civilians  turned  and  went  away.  The  soldiers 
stood  rigid  in  the  cold  sunshine,  and  waited.  A  little 
boy  kicked  a  football  over  the  sand.  The  guns  at 
Nieuport  crashed  and  hammered. 

After  a  time  the  doors  opened  again.  The  boy 
picked  up  his  football  and  came  closer.  The  musicians 
blew  on  their  fingers  to  warm  them.  The  dead  young 
officer  was  carried  out.  His  sword  gleamed  in  the  sun. 
They  carried  the  casket  carefully,  not  to  disorder  the 
carefully  folded  tunic  or  the  pathetic  cap.  The  body 
was  placed  in  an  ambulance.  At  a  signal  the  band  com- 
menced to  play  and  the  soldiers  closed  in  round  the 
ambulance. 

The  path  of  glory,  indeed! 

But  it  was  not  this  boyish  officer's  hope  of  glory 
that  had  brought  this  scene  to  pass.  He  died  fighting  a 
defensive  war,  to  save  what  was  left  to  him  of  the 
country  he  loved.  He  had  no  dream  of  empire,  no 


48  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

vision  of  commercial  supremacy,  no  thrill  of  conquest 
as  an  invaded  and  destroyed  country  bent  to  the  inev- 
itable. For  months  since  Liege  he  had  fought  a  losing 
fight,  a  fight  that  Belgium  knew  from  the  beginning 
must  be  a  losing  fight,  until  such  time  as  her  allies 
could  come  to  her  aid.  Like  the  others,  he  had  nothing 
to  gain  by  this  war  and  everything  to  lose. 

He  had  lost.    The  ambulance  moved  away. 

I  was  frequently  in  La  Panne  after  that  day.  I 
got  to  know  well  the  road  from  Dunkirk,  with  its 
bordering  of  mud  and  ditch,  its  heavy  transports,  its 
grey  gunboats  in  the  canals  that  followed  it  on  one 
side,  its  long  lines  of  over-laden  soldiers,  its  automo- 
biles that  travelled  always  at  top  speed.  I  saw  pictures 
that  no  artist  will  ever  paint — of  horrors  and  beauties, 
of  pathos  and  comedy;  of  soldiers  washing  away  the 
filth  of  the  trenches  in  the  cold  waters  of  canals  and 
ditches;  of  refugees  flying  by  day  from  the  towns,  and 
returning  at  night  to  their  ruined  houses  to  sleep  in  the 
cellars;  of  long  processions  of  Spahis,  Arabs  from  Al- 
geria, silhouetted  against  the  flat  sky  line  against  a 
setting1  sun,  their  tired  horses  moving  slowly,  with 
drooping  heads,  while  their  riders,  in  burnoose  and 
turban,  rode  with  loose  reins;  of  hostile  aeroplanes 
sailing  the  afternoon  breeze  like  lazy  birds,  while  shells 
from  the  anti-aircraft  guns  burst  harmlessly  below 
them  in  small  balloon-shaped  clouds  of  smoke. 

But  never  in  all  that  time  did  I  overcome  the  sense 
of  unreality,  and  always  I  was  obsessed  by  the  injus- 
tice, the  wanton  waste  and  cost  and  injustice  of  it  all. 
The  baby  at  La  Panne — why  should  it  go  through  life 
on  stumps  instead  of  legs?  The  boyish  officer — why 
should  he  have  died?  The  little  sixteen-year-old  sol- 
dier who  had  been  blinded  and  who  sat  all  day  by  the 


"  'TWAS  A  FAMOUS  VICTORY"  49 

phonograph,  listening  to  Madame  Butterfly,  Tipperary, 
and  Harry  Lauder's  A  Wee  Deoch-an'-Doris — why 
should  he  never  see  again  what  I  could  see  from  the 
window  beside  him,  the  winter  sunset  over  the  sea, 
the  glistening  white  of  the  sands,  the  flat  line  of  the 
surf  as  it  crept  in  to  the  sentries'  feet?  Why?  Why? 

All  these  wrecks  of  boys  and  men,  where  are  they 
to  go?  What  are  they  to  do?  Blind  and  maimed, 
weak  from  long  privation  followed  by  great  suffering, 
what  is  to  become  of  them  when  the  hospital  has  ful- 
filled its  function  and  they  are  discharged  "cured"? 
Their  occupations,  their  homes,  their  usefulness  are 
gone.  They  have  not  always  even  clothing  in  which 
to  leave  the  hospital.  If  it  was  not  destroyed  by  the 
shell  or  shrapnel  that  mutilated  them  it  was  worn  be- 
yond belief  and  redemption.  Such  ragged  uniforms 
as  I  have  seen!  Such  tragedies  of  trousers!  Such 
absurd  and  heart-breaking  tunics! 

When,  soon  after,  I  was  presented  to  the  King  of 
the  Belgians,  these  very  questions  had  written  lines  in 
his  face.  It  is  easy  to  believe  that  King  Albert  of  Bel- 
gium has  buried  his  private  anxieties  in  the  common 
grief  and  stress  of  his  people. 


CHAPTER  V 
'A  TALK  WITH  THE  KING  OF  THE  BELGIANS 


THE  letter  announcing  that  I  was  to  have  an  audi- 
ence with  the  King  of  the  Belgians  reached  me 
at  Dunkirk,  France,  on  the  evening  of  the  day  before 
the  date  set.  It  was  brief  and  to  the  effect  that  the 
King  would  receive  me  the  next  afternoon  at  two 
o'clock  at  the  Belgian  Army  headquarters. 

The  object  of  my  visit  was  well  known;  and,  be- 
cause I  wished  an  authoritative  statement  to  give  to 
America,  I  had  requested  that  the  notes  of  my  conver- 
sation with  His  Majesty  should  be  officially  approved. 
This  request  was  granted.  The  manuscript  of  the  in- 
terview that  follows  was  submitted  to  His  Majesty  for 
approval.  It  is  published  as  it  occurred,  and  nothing 
has  been  added  to  the  record. 

A  general  from  the  Ministry  of  War  came  to  the 
Hotel  des  Arcades,  in  Dunkirk,  and  I  was  taken  in  a 
motor  car  to  the  Belgian  Army  headquarters  some 
miles  away.  As  the  general  who  conducted  me  had 
influenza,  and  I  was  trying  to  keep  my  nerves  in  good 
order,  it  was  rather  a  silent  drive.  The  car,  as  are  all 
military  cars — and  there  are  no  others — was  driven  by 
a  soldier-chauffeur  by  whose  side  sat  the  general's  or- 
derly. Through  the  narrow  gate,  with  its  drawbridge 
guarded  by  many  sentries,  we  went  out  into  the  open 
country. 

so 


TALK  WITH  THE  KING  OF  THE  BELGIANS      51 

The  road,  considering  the  constant  traffic  of  heavy 
transports  and  guns,  was  very  fair.  It  is  under  con- 
stant repair.  At  first,  during  this  severe  winter,  on 
account  of  rain  and  snow,  accidents  were  frequent. 
The  road,  on  both  sides,  was  deep  in  mud  and  prolific 
of  catastrophe;  and  even  now,  with  conditions  much 
better,  there  are  numerous  accidents.  Cars  all  travel 
at  frightful  speed.  There  are  no  restrictions,  and  it  is 
nothing  to  see  machines  upset  and  abandoned  in  the 
low-lying  fields  that  border  the  road. 

Conditions,  however,  are  better  than  they  were. 
Part  of  the  conservation  system  has  been  the  building 
of  narrow  ditches  at  right  angles  to  the  line  of  the 
road,  to  lead  off  the  water.  Every  ten  feet  or  so  there 
is  a  gutter  filled  with  fagots. 

I  had  been  in  the  general's  car  before.  The  red- 
haired  Fleming  with  the  fierce  moustache  who  drove  it 
was  a  speed  maniac,  and  passing  the  frequent  sentries 
was  only  a  matter  of  the  password.  A  signal  to  slow 
down,  given  by  the  watchful  sentry,  a  hoarse  whis- 
per of  the  password  as  the  car  went  by,  and  on 
again  at  full  speed.  There  was  no  bothering  with 
papers. 

On  each  side  of  the  road  were  trenches,  barbed-wire 
entanglements,  earthen  barriers,  canals  filled  with 
barges.  And  on  the  road  were  lines  of  transports  and 
a  file  of  Spahis  on  horseback,  picturesque  in  their 
flowing  burnouses,  bearded  and  dark-skinned,  riding 
their  undipped  horses  through  the  roads  under  the 
single  rows  of  trees.  We  rode  on  through  a  village 
where  a  pig  had  escaped  from  a  slaughterhouse  and 
was  being  pursued  by  soldiers — and  then,  at  last,  army 
headquarters  and  the  King  of  the  Belgians. 

There  was  little  formality.     I  was  taken  in  charge 


52  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

by  the  King's  equerry,  who  tapped  at  a  closed  door. 
I  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Madame  Rinehart!"  said  the  equerry,  and  stood 
aside. 

There  was  a  small  screen  in  front  of  the  door.  I 
went  round  it.  Standing  alone  before  the  fire  was 
Albert  I,  King  of  the  Belgians.  I  bowed;  then  we 
shook  hands  and  he  asked  me  to  sit  down. 

It  was  to  be  a  conversation  rather  than  an  interview ; 
but  as  it  was  to  be  given  as  accurately  as  possible  to 
the  American  people,  I  was  permitted  to  make  careful 
notes  of  both  questions  and  answers.  It  was  to  be,  in 
effect,  a  statement  of  the  situation  in  Belgium  as  the 
King  of  the  Belgians  sees  it. 

I  spoke  first  of  a  message  to  America. 

"I  have  already  sent  a  message  to  America/'  he 
informed  me;  "quite  a  long  message.  We  are,  of 
course,  intensely  appreciative  of  what  Americans  have 
done  for  Belgium." 

"They  are  anxious  to  do  what  they  can.  The  gen- 
eral feeling  is  one  of  great  sympathy." 

"Americans  are  both  just  and  humane,"  the  King 
replied;  "and  their  system  of  distribution  is  excellent. 
I  do  not  know  what  we  should  have  done  without  the 
American  Relief  Committees." 

"Is  there  anything  further  Your  Majesty  can  sug- 
gest?" 

"They  seem  to  have  thought  of  everything,"  the 
King  said  simply.  "The  food  is  invaluable — particu- 
larly the  flour.  It  has  saved  many  from  starvation." 

"But  there  is  still  need?" 

"Oh,  yes — great  need." 

It  was  clear  that  the  subject  was  a  tragic  one.  The 
King  of  the  Belgians  loves  his  people,  as  they  love 


TALK  WITH  THE  KING  OF  THE  BELGIANS      53 

him,  with  a  devotion  that  is  completely  unselfish.  That 
he  is  helpless  to  relieve  so  much  that  they  are  com- 
pelled to  endure  is  his  great  grief. 

His  face  clouded.  Probably  he  was  seeing1,  as  he 
must  always  see,  the  dejected  figures  of  the  peasants  in 
the  fields;  the  long  files  of  his  soldiers  as  they  made 
their  way  through  wet  and  cold  to  the  trenches;  the 
destroyed  towns;  the  upheaval  of  a  people. 

"What  is  possible  to  know  of  the  general  condition 
of  affairs  in  that  part  of  Belgium  occupied  by  the  Ger- 
mans?" I  asked.  "I  do  not  mean  in  regard  to  food 
only,  but  the  general  condition  of  the  Belgian 
people." 

"It  is  impossible  to  say,"  was  the  answer.  "During 
the  invasion  it  was  very  bad.  It  is  a  little  better  now, 
of  course;  but  here  we  are  on  the  wrong  side  of  the 
line  to  form  any  ordered  judgment.  To  gain  a  real 
conception  of  the  situation  it  would  be  necessary  to 
go  through  the  occupied  portions  from  town  to  town, 
almost  from  house  to  house.  Have  you  been  in  the 
other  part  of  Belgium?" 

"Not  yet ;  I  may  go." 

"You  should  do  that — see  Louvain,  Aerschot,  Ant- 
werp— see  the  destroyed  towns  for  yourself.  No  one 
can  tell  you.  You  must  see  them." 

I  was  not  certain  that  I  should  be  permitted  to  make 
such  a  journey,  but  the  King  waved  my  doubts  aside 
with  a  gesture. 

"You  are  an  American,"  he  said.  "It  would  be 
quite  possible  and  you  would  see  just  what  has  hap- 
pened. You  would  see  open  towns  that  were  bom- 
barded; other  towns  that  were  destroyed  after  occu- 
pation! You  would  see  a  country  ruthlessly  devas- 
tated ;  our  wonderful  monuments  destroyed ;  our  archi- 


54  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

tectural  and  artistic  treasures  sacrificed  without  reason 
— without  any  justification." 

"But  as  a  necessity  of  war?"  I  asked. 

"Not  at  all.     The  Germans  have  saved  buildings 
when  it  suited  their  convenience  to  do  so.    No  military ' 
necessity  dictated  the  destruction  of  Louvain.    It  was! 
not  bombarded.     It  was  deliberately  destroyed.    But, 
of  course,  you  know  that." 

"The  matter  of  the  violation  of  Belgium's  neutrality 
still  remains  an  open  question,"  I  said.  "I  have  seen 
in  American  facsimile  copies  of  documents  referring 
to  conversations  between  staff  officers  of  the  British 
and  Belgian  armies — documents  that  were  found  in 
the  ministerial  offices  at  Brussels  when  the  Germans 
occupied  that  city  last  August.  Of  course  I  think  most 
Americans  realise  that,  had  they  been  of  any  real 
importance,  they  would  have  been  taken  away.  There 
was  time  enough.  But  there  are  some,  I  know,  who 
think  them  significant" 

The  King  of  the  Belgians  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"They  were  of  an  unofficial  character  and  entirely 
without  importance.  The  German  Staff  probably 
knew  all  about  them  long  before  the  declaration  of 
war.  They  themselves  had,  without  doubt,  discussed 
and  recorded  similar  probabilities  in  case  of  war  with 
other  countries.  It  is  a  common  practice  in  all  army 
organisations  to  prepare  against  different  contingen- 
cies. It  is  a  question  of  military  routine  only." 

"There  was  no  justification,  then,  for  the  violation 
of  Belgian  neutrality?"  I  inquired. 

"None  whatever!  The  German  violation  of  Bel- 
gian neutrality  was  wrong,"  he  said  emphatically. 
"On  the  fourth  of  August  their  own  chancellor  admit- 
ted it.  Belgium  had  no  thought  of  war.  The  Belgians 


TALK  WITH  THE  KING  OF  THE  BELGIANS       55 

are  a  peace-loving  people,  who  had  every  reason  to 
believe  in  the  friendship  of  Germany." 

The  next  question  was  a  difficult  one.  I  inquired 
as  to  the  behaviour  of  the  Germans  in  the  conquered 
territory;  but  the  King  made  no  sweeping  condemna- 
tion of  the  German  Army. 

"Fearful  things  have  been  done,  particularly  during 
the  invasion,"  he  said,  weighing  his  words  carefully; 
"but  it  would  be  unfair  to  condemn  the  whole  German 
Army.  Some  regiments  have  been  most  humane;  but 
others  behaved  very  badly.  Have  you  seen  the  gov- 
ernment report?" 

I  said  I  had  not  seen  it,  though  I  had  heard  that  a 
careful  investigation  had  been  made. 

"The  government  was  very  cautious,"  His  Majesty 
said.  "The  investigation  was  absolutely  impartial  and 
as  accurate  as  it  could  be  made.  Doubts  were  cast  on 
all  statements — even  those  of  the  most  dependable 
witnesses — until  they  could  be  verified." 

"They  were  verified?" 

"Yes;  again  and  again." 

"By  the  victims  themselves?" 

"Not  always.  The  victims  of  extreme  cruelty  do 
not  live  to  tell  of  it;  but  German  soldiers  themselves 
have  told  the  story.  We  have  had  here  many  hun- 
dreds of  journals,  taken  from  dead  or  imprisoned 
Germans,  furnishing  elaborate  details  of  most  atro- 
cious acts.  The  government  is  keeping  these  journals. 
They  furnish  powerful  and  incontrovertible  testimony 
of  what  happened  in  Belgium  when  it  was  swept  over 
by  a  brutal  army.  That  was,  of  course,  during  the 
invasion — such  things  are  not  happening  now  so  far 
as  we  know." 

He  had  spoken  quietly,  but  there  was  a  new  note  of 


56  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

strain  in  his  voice.  The  burden  of  the  King  of  the 
Belgians  is  a  double  one.  To  the  horror  of  war  has 
been  added  the  unnecessary  violation  and  death  of 
noncombatants. 

The  King  then  referred  to  the  German  advance 
through  Belgian  territory. 

"Thousands  of  civilians  have  been  killed  without 
reason.  The  execution  of  noncombatants  is  not  war, 
and  no  excuse  can  be  made  for  it.  Such  deeds  cannot 
be  called  war." 

"But  if  the  townspeople  fired  on  the  Germans?"  I 
asked. 

"All  weapons  had  been  deposited  in  the  hands  of 
the  town  authorities.  It  is  unlikely  that  any  organised 
attack  by  civilians  could  have  been  made.  However, 
if  in  individual  cases  shots  were  fired  at  the  German 
soldiers,  this  may  always  be  condoned  in  a  country 
suffering  invasion.  During  an  occupation  it  would  be 
different,  naturally.  No  excuse  can  be  offered  for 
such  an  action  in  occupied  territory." 

"Various  Belgian  officers  have  told  me  of  seeing 
crowds  of  men,  women  and  children  driven  ahead  of 
the  German  Army  to  protect  the  troops.  This  is  so 
incredible  that  I  must  ask  whether  it  has  any  founda- 
tion of  truth." 

"It  is  quite  true.  It  is  a  barbarous  and  inhuman 
system  of  protecting  the  German  advance.  When  the' 
Belgian  soldiers  fired  on  the  enemy  they  killed  their 
own  people.  Again  and  again  innocent  civilians  of 
both  sexes  were  sacrificed  to  protect  the  invading  army 
during  attacks.  A  terrible  slaughter!" 

His  Majesty  made  no  effort  to  conceal  his  great 
grief  and  indignation.  And  again,  as  before,  there 
seemed  to  be  nothing  to  say. 


TALK  WITH  THE  KING  OF  THE  BELGIANS      57 

"Even  now,"  I  said,  "when  the  Belgians  return  the 
German  artillery  fire  they  are  bombarding  their  own 
towns." 

"That  is  true,  of  course ;  but  what  can  we  do  ?  And 
the  civilian  population  is  very  brave.  They  fear  inva- 
sion, but  they  no  longer  pay  any  attention  to  bombs. 
They  work  in  the  fields  quite  calmly,  with  shells  drop- 
ping about.  They  must  work  or  starve." 

He  then  spoke  of  the  morale  of  the  troops,  which  is 
excellent,  and  of  his  sympathy  for  their  situation. 

"Their  families  are  in  Belgium,"  he  said.  "Many 
of  them  have  heard  nothing  for  months.  But  they 
are  wonderful.  They  are  fighting  for  life  and  to 
regain  their  families,  their  homes  and  their  country. 
Christmas  was  very  sad  for  them," 

"In  the  event  of  the  German  Army's  retiring  from 
Belgium,  do  you  believe,  as  many  do,  that  there  will 
be  more  destruction  of  cities?  Brussels,  for  instance?" 

"I  think  not." 

I  referred  to  my  last  visit  to  Belgium,  when  Brussels 
was  the  capital;  and  to  the  contrast  now,  when  La 
Panne  a  small  seaside  resort  hardly  more  than  a  vil- 
lage, contains  the  court,  the  residence  of  the  King  and 
Queen,  and  of  the  various  members  of  his  household. 
It  seemed  to  me  unlikely  that  La  Panne  would  be  at- 
tacked, as  the  Queen  of  the  Belgians  is  a  Bavarian. 

"Do  you  think  La  Panne  will  be  bombarded?"  I 
asked. 

"Why  not?" 

"I  thought  that  possibly,  on  account  of  Your  Maj- 
esty and  the  Queen  being  there,  it  would  be  spared. 

"They  are  bombarding  Furnes,  where  I  go  every 
day,"  he  replied.  "And  there  are  German  aeroplanes 
overhead  all  the  time." 


58  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

The  mention  of  Fumes  brought  to  my  mind  the 
flooded  district  near  that  village,  which  extends  from 
Nieuport  to  Dixmude. 

"Belgium  has  made  a  great  sacrifice  in  flooding  her 
lowlands,"  I  said.  "Will  that  land  be  as  fertile  as 
before?" 

"Not  for  several  years.  The  flooding  of  the  pro- 
ductive land  in  the  Yser  district  was  only  carried  out 
as  a  military  necessity.  The  water  is  sea  water,  of 
course,  and  will  have  a  bad  effect  on  the  soil.  Have 
you  seen  the  flooded  district?" 

I  told  His  Majesty  that  I  had  been  to  the  Belgian 
trenches,  and  then  across  the  inundated  country  to  one 
of  the  outposts;  a  remarkable  experience — one  I 
should  never  forget. 

The  conversation  shifted  to  America  and  her  point 
of  view;  to  American  women  who  have  married 
abroad.  His  Majesty  mentioned  especially  Lady 
Curzon.  Two  children  of  the  King  were  with  Lord 
Curzon,  in  England,  at  the  time.  The  Crown  Prince, 
a  boy  of  fourteen,  tall  and  straight  like  his  father,  was 
with  the  King  and  Queen. 

The  King  had  risen  and  was  standing  in  his  favour- 
ite attitude,  his  elbow  on  the  mantelpiece.  I  rose  also. 

"I  was  given  some  instructions  as  to  the  ceremonial 
of  this  audience,"  I  said.  "I  am  afraid  I  have  not 
followed  them!" 

"What  were  you  told  to  do?"  said  His  Majesty, 
evidently  amused.  Then,  without  waiting  for  a  reply : 

"We  are  very  democratic — we  Belgians,"  he  said. 
"More  democratic  than  the  Americans.  The  President 
of  the  United  States  has  great  power — very  great 
power.  He  is  a  czar." 

He  referred  to  President  Wilson  in  terms  of  great 


TALK  WITH  THE  KING  OF  THE  BELGIANS       59 

esteem — not  only  as  the  President  but  as  a  man.  He 
spoke,  also,  with  evident  admiration  of  Mr.  Roosevelt 
and  Mr.  McKinley,  both  of  whom  he  had  met. 

I  looked  at  the  clock.  It  was  after  three  and  the 
interview  had  begun  at  two.  I  knew  it  was  time  for 
me  to  go,  but  I  had  been  given  no  indication  that  the 
interview  was  at  an  end.  Fragments  of  the  coaching 
I  had  received  came  to  my  mind,  but  nothing  useful ; 
so  I  stated  my  difficulty  frankly,  and  again  the  King's 
serious  face  lighted  up  with  a  smile. 

"There  is  no  formality  here;  but  if  you  are  going 
we  must  find  the  general  for  you." 

So  we  shook  hands  and  I  went  out;  but  the  beautiful 
courtesy  of  the  soldier  King  of  the  Belgians  brought 
him  out  to  the  doorstep  with  me. 

That  is  the  final  picture  I  have  of  Albert  I,  King  of 
the  Belgians — a  tall  young  man,  very  fair  and  blue- 
eyed,  in  the  dark  blue  uniform  of  a  lieutenant-general 
of  his  army,  wearing  no  orders  or  decorations,  stand- 
ing bareheaded  in  the  wind  and  pointing  out  to  me  the 
direction  in  which  I  should  go  to  find  the  general  who 
had  brought  me. 

He  is  a  very  courteous  gentleman,  with  the  eyes  of 
one  who  loves  the  sea,  for  the  King  of  the  Belgians  is 
a  sailor  in  his  heart;  a  tragic  and  heroic  figure  but 
thinking  himself  neither — thinking  of  himself  not  at 
all,  indeed;  only  of  his  people,  whose  griefs  are  his  to 
share  but  not  to  lighten;  living  day  and  night  under 
the  rumble  of  German  artillery  at  Nieuport  and  Dix- 
mude  in  that  small  corner  of  Belgium  which  remains 
to  him. 

He  is  a  King  who,  without  suspicion  of  guilt,  has 
lost  his  country;  who  has  seen  since  August  of  1914 
two-thirds  of  his  army  lost,  his  beautiful  and  ancient 


60  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

towns  destroyed,  his  fertile  lands  thrown  open  to  the 
sea. 

I  went  on.  The  guns  were  still  at  work.  At  Nieu- 
pcrt,  Dixmude,  Fumes,  Pervyse — all  along  that  flat, 
flooded  region — the  work  of  destruction  was  going 
on.  Overhead,  flying  high,  were  two  German  aero- 
planes— the  eyes  of  the  war. 


Not  politically,  but  humanely,  it  was  time  to  make 
to  America  an  authoritative  statement  as  to  conditions 
in  Belgium. 

The  principle  of  non-interference  in  European  poli- 
tics is  one  of  national  policy  and  not  to  be  questioned. 
But  there  can  be  no  justification  for  the  destruction  of 
property  and  loss  of  innocent  lives  in  Belgium.  Ger- 
many had  plead  to  the  neutral  nations  her  necessity, 
and  had  plead  eloquently.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
English  and  French  authorities  during  the  first  year 
of  the  war  had  preserved  a  dignified  silence,  confident 
of  the  justice  of  their  cause. 

And  official  Belgium  had  made  no  complaint.  She 
had  bowed  to  the  judgment  of  her  allies,  knowing 
that  a  time  would  come,  at  the  end  of  the  war,  to 
speak  of  her  situation  and  to  demand  justifiable 
redress. 

But  a  million  homeless  Belgians  in  England  and 
Holland  proclaimed  and  still  proclaim  their  wretched- 
ness broadcast.  The  future  may  bring  redress,  but  the 
present  story  of  Belgium  belongs  to  the  world.  Amer- 
ica, the  greatest  of  the  neutral  countries,  has  a  right  to 
know  now  the  suffering  and  misery  of  this  patient, 
hard-working  people. 

This  war  may  last  a  long  time ;  the  western  armies 


TALK  WITH  THE  KING  OF  THE  BELGIANS      61 

are  at  a  deadlock.  Since  November  of  1914  the  line 
has  varied  only  slightly  here  and  there ;  has  been  pushed 
out  or  back  only  to  straighten  again. 

Advances  may  be  counted  by  feet.  From  Nieuport 
to  Ypres  attacks  are  waged  round  solitary  farms 
which,  by  reason  of  the  floods,  have  become  tiny 
islands  protected  by  a  few  men,  mitrailleuses,  and  en- 
tanglements of  barbed  wire.  Small  attacking  bodies 
capture  such  an  outpost,  wading  breast-deep — drown- 
ing when  wounded — in  the  stagnant  water.  There 
are  no  glorious  charges  here,  no  contagion  of  courage ; 
simply  a  dogged  and  desperate  struggle — a  gain  which 
the  next  day  may  see  forfeited.  The  only  thing  that 
goes  on  steadily  is  the  devastating  work  of  the  heavy 
guns  on  each  side. 

Meantime,  both  in  England  and  in  France,  there  has 
been  a  growing  sentiment  that  the  government's  policy 
of  silence  has  been  a  mistake.  The  cudgel  of  public 
opinion  is  a  heavy  one.  The  German  propaganda  in 
America  has  gone  on  steadily.  There  is  no  argument 
where  one  side  only  is  presented.  That  splendid  and 
solid  part  of  the  American  people,  the  German  popu- 
lation, essentially  and  naturally  patriotic,  keeping  their 
faith  in  the  Fatherland,  is  constantly  presenting  its 
case ;  and  against  that  nothing  official  has  been  offiered. 

England  is  fighting  heroically,  stoically;  but  her 
stoicism  is  a  vital  mistake.  This  silence  has  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  military  movements,  their  success 
or  their  failure.  It  is  more  fundamental,  an  inherent 
characteristic  of  the  English  character,  founded  on 
i reserve — perhaps  tinged  with  that  often  misunder- 
stood conviction  of  the  Britisher  that  other  persons 
,  cannot  be  really  interested  in  what  is  strictly  another's 
affairs. 


KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 


The  Allies  are  beginning  to  realise,  however,  that 
this  war  is  not  their  own  affair  alone.  It  affects  the 
world  too  profoundly.  Mentally,  morally,  spiritually 
and  commercially,  it  is  an  upheaval  in  which  all  must 
suffer. 

And  the  English  people,  who  have  sent  and  are  send- 
ing the  very  flower  of  their  country's  manhood  to  the 
front,  are  beginning  to  regret  the  error  in  judgment 
that  has  left  the  rest  of  the  English-speaking  world  in 
comparative  ignorance  of  the  true  situation. 

They  are  sending  the  best  they  have — men  of  high 
ideals,  who,  as  volunteers,  go  out  to  fight  for  what 
they  consider  a  just  cause.  The  old  families,  in  which 
love  of  country  and  self-sacrifice  are  traditions,  have 
suffered  heavily. 

The  crux  of  the  situation  is  Belgium — the  violation 
of  her  neutrality;  the  conduct  of  the  invading  army; 
her  unnecessary  and  unjustifiable  suffering.  And  Bel- 
gium has  felt  that  the  time  to  speak  has  come. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  CAUSE 


THE  Belgian  Red  Cross  may  well  be  proud  of 
the  hospital  at  La  Panne.  It  is  modern,  thor- 
oughly organised,  completely  equipped.  Within  two 
weeks  of  the  outbreak  of  the  war  it  was  receiving  pa- 
tients. It  was  not  at  the  front  then.  But  the  German 
tide  has  forced  itself  along  until  now  it  is  almost  on 
the  line. 

Generally  speaking,  order  had  taken  the  place  of 
the  early  chaos  in  the  hospital  situation  when  I  was 
at  the  front.  The  British  hospitals  were  a  satisfac- 
tion to  visit.  The  French  situation  was  not  so  good. 
,The  isolated  French  hospitals  were  still  in  need  of 
everything,  even  of  anaesthetics.  The  lack  of  an  or- 
ganised nursing  system  was  being  keenly  felt. 

But  the  early  handicaps  of  unpreparedness  and  over- 
whelming numbers  of  patients  had  been  overcome  to  a 
large  extent.  Scientific  management  and  modern  effi-, 
ciency  had  stepped  in.  Things  were  still  capable  of 
improvement.  Gentlemen  ambulance  drivers  are  not 
always  to  be  depended  on.  Nurses  are  not  all  of  the 
same  standard  of  efficiency.  Supplies  of  one  sort  ex- 
ceeded the  demand,  while  other  things  were  entirely 
lacking.  Food  of  the  kind  that  was  needed  by  the 
very  ill  was  scarce,  expensive  and  difficult  to  secure 
at  any  price. 

63 


64  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

But  the  things  that  have  been  done  are  marvellous. 
Surgery  has  not  failed.  The  stereoscopic  X-ray  and 
antitetanus  serum  are  playing  their  active  part.  Once 
out  of  the  trenches  a  soldier  wounded  at  the  front  has 
as  much  chance  now  as  a.  man  injured  in  the  pursuit 
of  a  peaceful  occupation. 

Once  out  of  the  trenches !  For  that  is  the  question. 
The  ambulances  must  wait  for  night.  It  is  not  in  the 
hospitals  but  in  the  ghastly  hours  between  injury  and 
darkness  that  the  case  of  life  or  death  is  decided. 
That  is  where  surgical  efficiency  fails  against  the  bru- 
tality of  this  war,  where  the  Red  Cross  is  no  longer 
respected,  where  it  is  not  possible  to  gather  in  the 
wounded  under  the  hospital  flag,  where  there  is  no 
armistice  and  no  pity.  This  is  war,  glorious  war, 
which  those  who  stay  at  home  say  smugly  is  good  for 
a  nation. 

But  there  are  those  who  are  hurt,  not  in  the  trenches 
but  in  front  of  them.  In  that  narrow  strip  of  No 
Man's  Land  between  the  confronting  armies,  and  ex- 
tending four  hundred  and  fifty  miles  from  the  sea 
through  Belgium  and  France,  each  day  uncounted 
numbers  of  men  fall,  and,  falling,  must  lie.  The  ter- 
rible thirst  that  follows  loss  of  blood  makes  them 
faint;  the  cold  winds  and  snows  and  rains  of  what 
has  been  a  fearful  winter  beat  on  them;  they  cannot 
have  water  or  shelter.  The  lucky  ones  die,  but  there 
are  some  that  live,  and  live  for  days.  This  too  is  war, 
glorious  war,  which  is  good  for  a  nation,  which  makes 
its  boys  into  men,  and  its  men  into  these  writhing 
figures  that  die  so  slowly  and  so  long. 

I  have  seen  many  hospitals.  Some  of  the  make- 
shifts would  be  amusing  were  they  not  so  pathetic. 
Old  chapels  with  beds  and  supplies  piled  high  before 


THE  CAUSE  65 


the  altar;  kindergarten  rooms  with  childish  mottoes 
on  the  walls,  from  which  hang  fever  charts;  nuns' 
ctibicles  thrown  open  to  doctors  and  nurses  as  living 
quarters. 

At  La  Panne,  however,  there  are  no  makeshifts. 
There  are  no  wards,  so  called.  But  many  of  the  large 
rooms  hold  three  beds.  All  the  rooms  are  airy  and 
well  lighted.  True,  there  is  no  lift,  and  the  men  must 
be  carried  down  the  staircases  to  the  operating  rooms 
on  the  lower  floor,  and  carried  back  again.  But  the 
carrying  is  gently  done. 

There  are  two  operating  rooms,  each  with  two  mod- 
ern operating  tables.  The  floors  are  tiled,  the  walls, 
ceiling  and  all  furnishings  white.  Attached  to  the 
operating  rooms  is  a  fully  equipped  laboratory  and 
an  X-ray  room.  I  was  shown  the  stereoscopic  X-ray 
apparatus  by  which  the  figure  on  the  plate  stands  out 
in  relief,  like  any  stereoscopic  picture.  Every  large 
hospital  I  saw  had  this  apparatus,  which  is  invaluable 
in  locating  bullets  and  pieces  of  shell  or  shrapnel. 
Under  the  X-ray,  too,  extraction  frequently  takes 
place,  the  operators  using  long-handled  instruments 
and  gloves  that  are  soaked  in  a  solution  of  lead  and 
thus  become  impervious  to  the  rays  so  destructive  to 
the  tissues. 

Later  on  I  watched  Doctor  DePage  operate  at  this 
hospital.  I  was  put  into  a  uniform,  and  watched  a 
piece  of  shell  taken  from  a  man's  brain  and  a  great 
blood  clot  evacuated.  Except  for  the  red  cross  on 
each  window  and  the  rattle  of  the  sash  under  the 
guns,  I  might  have  been  in  one  of  the  leading  Ameri- 
can hospitals  and  war  a  century  away.  There  were 
the  same  white  uniforms  on  the  surgeons;  the  same 
white  gauze  covering  their  heads  and  swathing  their 


KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 


faces  to  the  eyes;  the  same  silence,  the  same  care  as 
to  sterilisation;  the  same  orderly  rows  of  instruments 
on  a  glass  stand ;  the  same  nurses,  alert  and  quiet ;  the 
same  clear  white  electric  light  overhead;  the  same 
rubber  gloves,  the  same  anaesthetists  and  assistants. 

It  was  twelve  minutes  from  the  time  the  operating 
surgeon  took  the  knife  until  the  wound  was  closed.. 
The  head  had  been  previously  shaved  by  one  of  the 
assistants,  and  painted  with  iodine.  In  twelve  minutes 
the  piece  of  shell  lay  in  my  hand.  The  stertorous 
breathing  was  easier,  bandages  were  being  adjusted, 
the  next  case  was  being  anaesthetised  and  prepared. 

I  wish  I  could  go  further.  I  wish  I  could  follow 
that  peasant-soldier  to  recovery  and  health.  I  wish  I 
could  follow  him  back  to  his  wife  and  children,  to  his 
little  farm  in  Belgium.  I  wish  I  could  even  say  he 
recovered.  But  I  cannot.  I  do  not  know.  The  war 
is  a  series  of  incidents  with  no  beginning  and  no  end. 
The  veil  lifts  for  a  moment  and  drops  again. 

I  saw  other  cases  brought  down  for  operation  at 

the  Ambulance  Ocean.     One  I   shall  never  forget. 

Here  was  a  boy  again,  looking  up  with  hopeful,  fully 

conscious  eyes  at  the  surgeons.     He  had  been  shot 

through  the  spine.     From  his  waist  down  he  was 

inert,  helpless.    He  smiled.    He  had  come  to  be  oper- 

/  ated  on.    Now  all  would  be  well.    The  great  surgeons 

'would  work  over  him,  and  he  would  walk  again. 

When  after  a  long  consultation  they  had  to  tell  hint 
they  could  not  operate,  I  dared  not  look  at  his  eyes. 

Again,  what  is  he  to  do?  Where  is  he  to  go?  He 
is  helpless,  in  a  strange  land.  He  has  no  country,  no 
people,  no  money.  And  he  will  live,  think  of  it ! 

I  wish  I  could  leaven  all  this  with  something  cheer- 
ful. I  wish  I  could  smile  over  the  phonograph  play- 


THE  CAUSE  67 


ing  again  and  again  A  Wee  Deoch-an'-Doris  in  that 
room  for  convalescents  that  overlooks  the  sea.  I  wish 
I  could  think  that  the  baby  with  both  legs  off  will 
grow  up  without  missing  what  it  has  never  known.  I 
wish  I  could  be  reconciled  because  the  dead  young 
officer  had  died  the  death  of  a  patriot  and  a  soldier, 
or  that  the  boy  I  saw  dying  in  an  upper  room,  from 
shock  and  loss  of  blood  following  an  amputation,  is 
only  a  pawn  in  the  great  chess  game  of  empires.  I 
wish  I  could  believe  that  the  two  women  on  the  floor 
below,  one  with  both  arms  gone,  another  with  one  arm 
off  and  her  back  ripped  open  by  a  shell,  are  the  legiti- 
mate fruits  of  a  holy  war.  I  cannot.  I  can  see  only 
greed  and  lust  of  battle  and  ambition. 

In  a  bright  room  I  saw  a  German  soldier.  He  had 
the  room  to  himself.  He  was  blue  eyed  and  yellow 
haired,  with  a  boyish  and  contagious  smile.  He  knew 
no  more  about  it  all  than  I  did.  It  must  have  be- 
wildered him  in  the  long  hours  that  he  lay  there  alone. 
He  did  not  hate  these  people.  He  never  had  hated 
them.  It  was  clear,  too,  that  they  did  not  hate  him. 
For  they  had  saved  a  gangrenous  leg  for  him  when  all 
hope  seemed  ended.  He  lay  there,  with  his  white 
coverlet  drawn  to  his  chin,  and  smiled  at  the  surgeon. 
tThey  were  evidently  on  the  best  of  terms. 

"How  goes  it?"  asked  the  surgeon  cheerfully  in 
German. 

f(Sehr  gut,"  he  said,  and  eyed  me  curiously. 

He  was  very  proud  of  the  leg,  and  asked  that  I  see 
it.  It  was  in  a  cast.  He  moved  it  about  triumphantly. 
Probably  all  over  Germany,  as  over  France  and  this 
corner  of  Belgium,  just  such  little  scenes  occur  daily, 
hourly. 

The  German  peasant,  like  the  French  and  the  Bel- 


68  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

gian,  is  a  peaceable  man.  He  is  military  but  not  mili- 
tant. He  is  sentimental  rather  than  impassioned.  He 
loves  Christmas  and  other  feast  days.  He  is  not  ambi- 
tious. He  fights  bravely,  but  he  would  rather  sing  or 
make  a  garden. 

It  is  over  the  bent  shoulders  of  these  peasants  that 
the  great  Continental  army  machines  must  march. 
The  German  peasant  is  poor,  because  for  forty  years 
he  has  been  paying  the  heavy  tax  of  endless  arma- 
ment. The  French  peasant  is  poor,  because  for  forty 
years  he  has  been  struggling  to  recover  from  the 
drain  of  the  huge  war  indemnity  demanded  by  Ger- 
many in  1871.  The  Russian  peasant  toils  for  a  re- 
mote government,  with  which  his  sole  tie  is  the  tax- 
gatherer;  toils  with  childish  faith  for  The  Little 
Father,  at  whose  word  he  may  be  sent  to  battle  for  a 
cause  of  which  he  knows  nothing. 

Germany's  militarism,  England's  navalism,  Rus- 
sia's autocracy,  France,  graft-ridden  in  high  places 
and  struggling  for  rehabilitation  after  a  century  of 
war — and,  underneath  it  all,  bearing  it  on  bent  shoul- 
ders, men  like  this  German  prisoner,  alone  in  his  room 
and  puzzling  it  out!  It  makes  one  wonder  if  the  re- 
sult of  this  war  will  not  be  a  great  and  overwhelm- 
ing individualism,  a  protest  of  the  unit  against  the 
mass;  if  Socialism,  which  has  apparently  died  of  an 
ideal,  will  find  this  ideal  but  another  name  for  tyranny, 
and  rise  from  its  grave  a  living  force. 

Now  and  then  a  justifiable  war  is  fought,  for  lib- 
erty perhaps,  or  like  our  Civil  War,  for  a  great  prin- 
ciple. There  are  wars  that  are  inevitable.  Such  wars 
are  frequently  revolutions  and  have  their  origins  in 
the  disaffection  of  a  people. 

But  here  is  a  world  war  about  which  volumes  are 


THE  CAUSE  69 


being  written  to  discover  the  cause.  Here  were  pros- 
perous nations,  building  wealth  and  culture  on  a  basis 
of  peace.  Europe  was  apparently  more  in  danger  of 
revolution  than  of  international  warfare.  It  is  not 
only  war  without  a  known  cause,  it  is  an  unexpected 
war.  Only  one  of  the  nations  involved  showed  any 
evidence  of  preparation.  England  is  not  yet  ready. 
Russia  has  not  yet  equipped  the  men  she  has  mobilised. 

Is  this  war,  then,  because  the  balance  of  power  is 
so  nicely  adjusted  that  a  touch  turns  the  scale,  whether 
that  touch  be  a  Kaiser's  dream  of  empire  or  the  eyes 
of  a  Czar  turned  covetously  toward  the  South? 

I  tried  to  think  the  thing  out  during  the  long 
nights  when  the  sound  of  the  heavy  guns  kept  me 
awake.  It  was  hard,  because  I  knew  so  little,  nothing? 
.at  all  of  European  politics,  or  war,  or  diplomacy. 
When  I  tried  to  be  logical,  I  became  emotional.  In- 
stead of  reason  I  found  in  myself  only  a  deep  resent- 
ment. 

I  could  see  only  that  blue-eyed  German  in  his  bed, 
those  cheery  and  cold  and  ill-equipped  Belgians  drill- 
ing on  the  sands  at  La  Panne. 

But  on  one  point  I  was  clear.  Away  from  all  the 
imminent  questions  that  filled  the  day,  the  changing1 
ethics  of  war,  its  brutalities,  its  hideous  necessities, 
one  point  stood  out  clear  and  distinct.  That  the  real 
issue  is  not  the  result,  but  the  cause  of  this  war.  That 
the  world  must  dig  deep  into  the  mire  of  European 
diplomacy  to  find  that  cause,  and  having  found  it 
must  destroy  it.  That  as  long  as  that  cause  persists, 
be  it  social  or  political,  predatory  or  ambitious,  there 
will  be  more  wars.  Again  it  will  be  possible  for  a 
handful  of  men  in  high  place  to  overthrow  a  world. 

And  one  of  the  first  results  of  the  discovery  of  that 


70  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

cause  will  be  a  demand  of  the  people  to  know  what 
their  representatives  are  doing.  Diplomacy,  instead 
of  secret  whispering,  a  finger  to  its  lips,  must  shout' 
.from  the  housetops.  Great  nations  cannot  be  gov- 
erned from  cellars.  Diplomats  are  not  necessarily 
conspirators.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  walking  in  the 
sunlight. 

There  is  no  such  thing  in  civilisation  as  a  warlike 
people.  There  are  peaceful  people,  or  aggressive  peo- 
ple, or  military  people.  But  there  are  none  that  do 
not  prefer  peace  to  war,  until,  inflamed  and  roused 
by  those  above  them  who  play  this  game  of  empires, 
they  must  don  the  panoply  of  battle  and  go  forth. 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  STORY  WITH  AN  END 


I"  N  its  way  that  hospital  at  La  Panne  epitomised  the 
•*•  whole  tragedy  of  the  great  war.  Here  were  women 
and  children,  innocent  victims  when  the  peaceful  near- 
by market  town  of  Furnes  was  being  shelled;  here  was 
a  telegraph  operator  who  had  stuck  to  his  post  under 
furious  bombardment  until  both  his  legs  were  crushed., 
He  had  been  decorated  by  the  king  for  his  bravery. 
Here  were  Belgian  aristocrats  without  extra  clothing 
or  any  money  whatever,  and  women  whose  whole  lives 
had  been  shielded  from  pain  or  discomfort.  One  of 
them,  a  young  woman  whose  father  is  among  the  larg- 
est landowners  in  Belgium,  is  in  charge  of  the  villa 
where  the  uniforms  of  wounded  soldiers  are  cleaned 
and  made  fit  for  use  again.  Over  her  white  uniform 
she  wore,  in  the  bitter  wind,  a  thin  tan  raincoat.  We 
walked  together  along  the  beach.  I  protested. 

"You  are  so  thinly  clad,"  I  said.  "Surely  you  do 
not  go  about  like  that  always!" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"It  is  all  I  have,"  she  said  philosophically.  "And  I 
have  no  money — none.  None  of  us  has." 

A  titled  Belgian  woman  with  her  daughter  had  just 
escaped  from  Brussels.  She  was  very  sad,  for  she 
had  lost  her  only  boy.  But  she  smiled  a  little  as  she 
told  me  of  their  having  nothing  but  what  they  wore, 


72  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

and  that  the  night  before  they  had  built  a  fire  in  their 
room,  washed  their  linen,  and  gone  to  bed,  leaving  it 
until  morning  to  dry. 

Across  the  full  width  of  the  hospital  stretched  the 
great  drawing-room  of  the  hotel,  now  a  recreation 
place  for  convalescent  soldiers.  Here  all  day  the 
phonograph  played,  the  nurses  off  duty  came  in  to 
write  letters,  the  surgeons  stopped  on  their  busy 
rounds  to  speak  to  the  men  or  to  watch  for  a  few 
minutes  the  ever-changing  panorama  of  the  beach, 
with  its  background  of  patrolling  gunboats,  its  engi- 
neers on  rest  playing  football,  its  occasional  aeroplanes, 
carrying  each  two  men — a  pilot  and  an  observer. 

The  men  sat  about.  There  were  boys  with  the 
stringy  beards  of  their  twenty  years.  There  were 
empty  sleeves,  many  crutches,  and  some  who  must  be 
led  past  the  chairs  and  tables — who  will  always  have 
to  be  led. 

They  were  all  cheerful.  But  now  and  then,  when 
the  bombardment  became  more  insistent,  some  of  them 
would  raise  their  heads  and  listen,  with  the  strained 
faces  of  those  who  see  a  hideous  picture. 

The  young  woman  who  could  not  buy  a  heavy  coat 
showed  me  the  villa  adjoining  the  hospital,  where  the 
clothing  of  wounded  soldiers  is  cared  for.  It  is  placed 
first  in  a  fumigating  plant  in  the  basement  and  thor- 
oughly sterilised.  After  that  it  is  brushed  of  its  en- 
crusted mud  and  blood  stains  are  taken  out  by  soaking 
in  cold  water.  It  is  then  dried  and  thoroughly  sunned. 
Then  it  is  ready  for  the  second  floor. 

Here  tailors  are  constantly  at  work  mending  gar- 
ments apparently  unmendable,  pressing,  steaming, 
patching,  sewing  on  buttons.  The  ragged  uniforms 
come  out  of  that  big  bare  room  clean  and  whole, 


THE  STORY  WITH  AN  END  73 

ready  to  be  tied  up  in  new  burlap  bags,  tagged,  and 
placed  in  racks  of  fresh  white  cedar.  There  is  no 
odour  in  this  room,  although  innumerable  old  garments 
are  stored  in  it. 

In  an  adjoining  room  the  rifles  and  swords  of  the 
injured  men  stand  in  racks,  the  old  and  unserviceable 
rifles  with  which  Belgium  was  forced  to  equip  so  many 
of  her  soldiers  side  by  side  with  the  new  and  scientific 
German  guns.  Along  the  wall  are  officers'  swords, 
and  above  them,  on  shelves,  the  haversacks  of  the 
common  soldiers,  laden  with  the  things  that  comprise 
their  whole  comfort. 

I  examined  one.  How  few  the  things  were  and 
how  worn!  And  yet  the  haversack  was  heavy.  As 
he  started  for  the  trenches,  this  soldier  who  was  car- 
ried back,  he  had  on  his  shoulders  this  haversack  of 
hide  tanned  with  the  hair  on.  In  it  he  had  two  pairs 
of  extra  socks,  worn  and  ragged,  a  tattered  and  dirty 
undershirt,  a  photograph  of  his  wife,  rags  for  clean- 
ing his  gun,  a  part  of  a  loaf  of  dry  bread,  the  remnant 
of  what  had  been  a  pair  of  gloves,  now  fingerless  and 
stiff  with  rain  and  mud,  a  rosary,  a  pair  of  shoes  that 
the  woman  of  the  photograph  would  have  wept  and 
prayed  over,  some  extra  cartridges  and  a  piece  of 
leather.  Perhaps  he  meant  to  try  to  mend  the  shoes. 

And  here  again  I  wish  I  could  finish  the  story.  I 
wish  I  could  tell  whether  he  lived  or  died — whether  he 
carried  that  knapsack  back  to  battle,  or  whether  he 
died  and  its  pitiful  contents  were  divided  among  those 
of  his  comrades  who  were  even  more  needy  than  he 
had  been.  But  the  veil  lifts  for  a  moment  and  drops 
again. 

Two  incidents  stand  out  with  distinctness  from 
those  first  days  in  La  Panne,  when,  thrust  with  amaz- 


74  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

ing  rapidity  into  the  midst  of  war,  my  mind  was  a 
chaos  of  interest,  bewilderment  and  despair. 

One  is  of  an  old  abbe,  talking  earnestly  to  a  young 
Belgian  noblewoman  who  had  recently  escaped  from 
Brussels  with  only  the  clothing  she  wore. 

The  abbe  was  round  of  face  and  benevolent.  I  had 
met  him  before,  at  Calais,  where  he  had  posed  me  in 
'front  of  a  statue  and  taken  my  picture.  His  enthu- 
siasm over  photography  was  contagious.  He  had 
made  a  dark  room  from  a  closet  in  an  old  convent, 
and  he  owned  a  little  American  camera.  With  this 
carefully  placed  on  a  tripod  and  covered  with  a  black 
cloth,  he  posed  me  carefully,  making  numerous  excur- 
sions under  the  cloth.  In  that  cold  courtyard,  under 
the  marble  figure  of  Joan  of  Arc,  he  was  a  warm  and 
human  and  most  alive  figure,  in  his  flat  black  shoes,  his 
long  black  soutane  with  its  woollen  sash,  his  woollen 
muffler  and  spectacles,  with  the  eternal  cigarette,  that 
is  part  and  parcel  of  every  Belgian,  dangling  loosely 
[from  his  lower  lip. 

The  surgeons  and  nurses  who  were  watching  the 
operation  looked  on  with  affectionate  smiles.  They 
loved  him,  this  old  priest,  with  his  boyishness,  his  en- 
thusiasms, his  tiny  camera,  his  cigarette,  his  beautiful 
'faith.  He  has  promised  me  the  photograph  and  what 
he  promises  he  fulfils.  But  perhaps  it  was  a  failure. 
I  hope  not.  He  would  be  so  disappointed — and  so 
would  I. 

So  I  was  glad  to  meet  him  again  at  La  Panne — 
glad  and  surprised,  for  he  was  fifty  miles  north  of 
where  we  had  met  before.  But  the  abbe  was  changed. 
He  was  without  the  smile,  without  the  cigarette.  And 
he  was  speaking  beseechingly  to  the  smiling  young 
refugee.  This  is  what  he  was  saying: 


THE  STORY  WITH  AN  END  75 

"I  am  glad,  daughter,  to  help  you  in  every  way  that 
I  can.  I  have  bought  for  you  in  Calais  everything 
that  you  requested.  But  I  implore  you,  daughter,  do 
not  ask  me  to  purchase  any  more  ladies'  underlinen. 
Tt  is  most  embarrassing." 

"But,  father " 

"No  underlinen,"  he  repeated  firmly.  But  it  hurt 
him  to  refuse.  One  could  see  that.  One  imagined, 
too,  that  in  his  life  of  service  there  were  few  refusals. 
I  left  them  still  debating.  The  abbe's  eyes  were  des- 
perate but  his  posture  firm.  One  felt  that  there  would 
be  no  surrender. 

Another  picture,  and  I  shall  leave  La  Panne  for  a 
time. 

I  was  preparing  to  go.  A  telephone  message  to 
General  Melis,  of  the  Belgian  Army,  had  brought  his 
car  to  take  me  to  Dunkirk.  I  was  about  to  leave  the 
protection  of  the  Belgian  Red  Cross  and  place  myself 
in  the  care  of  the  ministry  of  war.  I  did  not  know 
what  the  future  would  bring,  and  the  few  days  at 
La  Panne  and  the  Ambulance  Ocean  had  made  friends 
for  me  there.  Things  move  quickly  in  war  time.  The 
conventions  with  which  we  bind  up  our  souls  in  ordi- 
nary life  are  cut  away.  La  Panne  was  already 
familiar  and  friendly  territory. 

I  went  down  the  wide  staircase.  An  ambulance  had 
stopped  and  its  burden  was  being  carried  in.  The 
bearers  rested  the  stretcher  gently  on  the  floor,  and  a 
nurse  was  immediately  on  her  knees  beside  it. 

"Shell!"  she  said. 

The  occupant  was  a  boy  of  perhaps  nineteen — a  big 
boy.  Some  mother  must  have  been  very  proud  of 
him.  He  was  fully  conscious,  and  he  looked  up  from 
his  stained  bandages  with  the  same  searching  glance 


76  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

that  now  I  have  seen  so  often — the  glance  that  would 
read  its  chances  in  the  faces  of  those  about.  With 
his  uninjured  arm  he  threw  back  the  blanket.  His 
right  arm  was  wounded,  broken  in  two  places,  but 
not  shattered. 

"He'll  do  nicely,"  said  the  nurse.  "A  broken  jaw 
and  the  arm." 

His  eyes  were  on  me,  so  I  bent  over. 

"The  nurse  says  you  will  do  nicely,"  I  assured  him. 
"It  will  take  time,  but  you  will  be  very  comfortable 
here,  and " 

The  nurse  had  been  making  further  investigations. 
Now  she  turned  back  the  other  end  of  the  blanket. 
His  right  leg  had  been  torn  off  at  the  hip. 

That  story  has  an  end;  for  that  boy  died. 

The  drive  back  to  Dunkirk  was  a  mad  one.  After- 
ward I  learned  to  know  that  red-headed  Flemish 
chauffeur,  with  his  fiercely  upcurled  moustache  and 
his  contempt  of  death.  Rather,  perhaps,  I  learned 
to  know  his  back.  It  was  a  reckless  back.  He  wore  a 
large  army  overcoat  with  a  cape  and  a  cap  with  a 
tassel.  When  he  really  got  under  way  at  anything 
from  fifty  miles  an  hour  to  the  limit  of  the  speedom- 
eter, which  was  ninety  miles,  the  gilt  tassel,  which 
in  the  Belgian  cap  hangs  over  and  touches  the  fore- 
head, had  a  way  of  standing  up;  the  cape  overcoat 
blew  out  in  the  air,  cutting  off  my  vision  and  my  last 
hope. 

I  regard  that  chauffeur  as  a  menace  on  the  high 
road.  Certainly  he  is  not  a  lady's  chauffeur.  He 
never  will  be.  Once  at  night  he  took  me — and  the 
car — into  an  iron  railroad  gate,  and  bent  the  gate 
into  a  V.  I  was  bent  into  the  whole  alphabet 

The  car  was  a  limousine.    After  that  one  cold  ride 


THE  STORY  WITH  AN  END  77 

from  Calais  to  La  Panne  I  was  always  in  a  limousine 
— always,  of  course,  where  a  car  could  go  at  all. 
There  may  be  other  writers  who  have  been  equally 
fortunate,  but  most  of  the  stories  are  of  frightful 
hardships.  I  was  not  always  comfortable.  I  was 
frequently  in  danger.  But  to  and  from  the  front  I 
rode  soft  and  warm  and  comfortable.  Often  I  had  a 
bottle  of  hot  coffee  and  sandwiches.  Except  for  the 
two  carbines  strapped  to  the  speedometer,  except  for 
the  soldier-chauffeur  and  the  orderly  who  sat  together 
outside,  except  for  the  eternal  consulting  of  maps  and 
showing  of  passes,  I  might  have  been  making  a  pleas- 
ure tour  of  the  towns  of  Northern  France  and  Bel- 
gium. In  fact,  I  have  toured  abroad  during  times  of 
peace  and  have  been  less  comfortable. 

I  do  not  speak  Flemish,  so  I  could  not  ask  the 
chauffeur  to  desist,  slow  down,  or  let  me  out  to  walk. 
I  could  only  sit  tight  as  the  machine  flew  round  cor- 
ners, elbowed  transports,  and  threw  a  warning  shriek 
to  armoured  cars.  I  wondered  what  would  happen  if 
we  skidded  into  a  wagon  filled  with  high  explosives. 
I  tried  to  remember  the  conditions  of  my  war  insur- 
ance policy  at  Lloyd's.  Also  I  recalled  the  unpleasant 
habit  the  sentries  have  of  firing  through  the  back  of 
any  car  that  passes  them. 

I  need  not  have  worried.  Except  that  once  we  killed 
a  brown  chicken,  and  that  another  time  we  almost 
skidded  into  the  canal,  the  journey  was  uneventful, 
almost  calm.  One  thing  cheered  me — all  the  other 
machines  were  going  as  fast  as  mine.  A  car  that 
eased  up  its  pace  would  be  rammed  from  behind  prob- 
ably. I  am  like  the  English — I  prefer  a  charge  to  a 
rearguard  engagement. 

My  pass  took  me  into  Dunkirk. 


KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 


It  was  dusk  by  that  time.  I  felt  rather  lost  and 
alone.  I  figured  out  what  time  it  was  at  home.  I 
wished  some  one  would  speak  English.  And  I  hated 
being  regarded  as  a  spy  every  mile  or  so,  and  depend- 
ing on  a  slip  of  paper  as  my  testimonial  of  respect- 
ability. The  people  I  knew  were  lunching  about  that 
time,  or  getting  ready  for  bridge  or  the  matinee.  I 
wondered  what  would  happen  to  me  if  the  pass  blew 
out  of  the  orderly's  hands  and  was  lost  in  the  canal. 

The  chauffeur  had  been  instructed  to  take  me  to  the 
Mairie,  a  great  dark  building  of  stone  halls  and  stair- 
ways, of  sentries  everywhere,  of  elaborate  officers  and 
much  ceremony.  But  soon,  in  a  great  hall  of  the  old 
building  piled  high  with  army  supplies,  I  was  talking 
to  General  Melis,  and  my  troubles  were  over.  A  kindly 
and  courteous  gentleman,  he  put  me  at  my  ease  at 
once.  More  than  that,  he  spoke  some  English.  He 
had  received  letters  from  England  about  me,  and  had 
telegraphed  that  he  would  meet  me  at  Calais.  He 
had,  indeed,  taken  the  time  out  of  his  busy  day  to  go 
himself  to  Calais,  thirty  miles  by  motor,  to  meet  me. 

I  was  aghast.  "The  boat  went  to  Boulogne,"  I 
explained.  "I  had  no  idea,  of  course,  that  you  would 
be  there." 

"Now  that  you  are  here,"  he  said,  "it  is  all  right. 
But  —  exactly  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

So  I  told  him.  He  listened  attentively.  A  very  fine 
and  gallant  soldier  he  was,  sitting  in  that  great  room 
in  the  imposing  uniform  of  his  rank;  a  busy  man, 
taking  a  little  time  out  of  his  crowded  day  to  see  an 
American  woman  who  had  come  a  long  way  alone  to 
see  this  tragedy  that  had  overtaken  his  country.  Or- 
derlies and  officers  came  and  went;  the  Mairie  was  a 
hive  of  seething  activities.  But  he  listened  patiently. 


THE  STORY  WITH  AN  END  79 

"Where  do  you  want  to  go?"  he  asked  when  I  had 
finished. 

"I  should  like  to  stay  here,  if  I  may.  And  from 
here,  of  course,  I  should  like  to  get  to  the  front." 

"Where?" 

"Can  I  get  to  Ypres?" 

"It  is  not  very  safe." 

I  proclaimed  instantly  and  loudly  that  I  was  as 
brave  as  a  lion ;  that  I  did  not  know  fear.  He  smiled. 
But  when  the  interview  was  over  it  was  arranged  that 
I  should  have  a  permis  de  s&jour  to  stay  in  Dunkirk, 
and  that  on  the  following  day  the  general  himself  and 
one  of  his  officers  having  an  errand  in  that  direction 
would  take  me  to  Ypres. 

That  night  the  town  of  Dunkirk  was  bombarded 
by  some  eighteen  German  aeroplanes. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  NIGHT  RAID  ON  DUNKIRK 


T  FOUND  that  a  room  had  been  engaged  for  me 
•*•  at  the  Hotel  des  Arcades,  It  was  a  very  large 
room  looking  out  over  the  public  square  and  the 
statue  of  Jean  Bart.  It  was  really  a  princely  room. 
No  wonder  they  showed  it  to  me  proudly,  and  charged 
it  to  me  royally.  It  was  an  upholstered  room.  Even 
the  doors  were  upholstered.  And  because  it  was  up- 
holstered and  expensive  and  regal,  it  enjoyed  the  iso- 
lation of  greatness.  The  other  people  in  the  hotel  slept 
above  or  underneath. 

There  were  times  when  I  longed  for  neighbours, 
when  I  yearned  for  some  one  to  occupy  the  other 
royal  apartment  next  door.  But  except  for  a  Russian 
prince  who  stayed  two  days,  and  who  snored  in  Rus- 
sian and  kept  two  valets  de  chambre  up  all  night  in 
the  hall  outside  my  door  polishing  his  boots  and  clean- 
ing his  uniform,  I  was  always  alone  in  that  part  of  the 
hotel. 

At  my  London  hotel  I  had  been  lodged  on  the  top 
floor,  and  twice  in  the  night  the  hall  porter  had  tele- 
phoned me  to  say  that  German  Zeppelins  were  on 
their  way  to  London.  So  I  took  care  to  find  that  in 
the  Hotel  des  Arcades  there  were  two  stories  and 
two  layers  of  Belgian  and  French  officers  overhead. 

I  felt  very  comfortable — until  the  air  raid.  Then 

80 


THE  NIGHT  RAID  ON  DUNKIRK  81 

two  stories  seemed  absurd,  inadequate.  I  would  not 
have  felt  safe  in  the  subcellar  of  the  Woolworth 
Building. 

There  were  no  women  in  the  hotel  at  that  time, 
with  the  exception  of  a  hysterical  lady  manager,  who 
sat  in  a  boxlike  office  on  the  lower  floor,  and  two 
chambermaids.  A  boy  made  my  bed  and  brought  me 
hot  water.  For  several  weeks  at  intervals  he  knocked 
at  the  door  twice  a  day  and  said:  "Et  wat."  I  al- 
ways thought  it  was  Flemish  for  "May  I  come  in?" 
At  last  I  discovered  that  he  considered  this  the  Eng- 
lish for  "hot  water."  The  waiters  in  the  cafe  were 
too  old  to  be  sent  to  war,  but  I  think  the  cook  had 
gone.  There  was  no  cook.  Some  one  put  the  food  on 
the  fire,  but  he  was  not  a  cook. 

Dunkirk  had  been  bombarded  several  times,  I 
learned. 

"They  come  in  the  morning,"  said  my  informant. 
"Every  one  is  ordered  off  the  streets.  But  they  do 
little  damage.  One  or  two  machines  come  and  drop 
a  bomb  or  two.  That  is  all.  Very  few  are  killed." 

I  protested.  I  felt  rather  bitter  about  it.  I  expected 
trouble  along  the  lines,  I  explained.  I  knew  I 
would  be  quite  calm  when  I  was  actually  at  the  front, 
and  when  I  had  my  nervous  system  prepared  for  trou- 
ble. But  in  Dunkirk  I  expected  to  rest  and  relax.  I 
needed  sleep  after  La  Panne.  I  thought  something 
should  be  done  about  it. 

My  informant  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  was 
English,  and  entirely  fair. 

"Dunkirk  is  a  fortified  town,"  he  explained.  "It  is 
quite  legitimate.  But  you  may  sleep  to-night.  The 
raids  are  always  daylight  ones." 

So  I  commenced  dinner  calmly.    I  do  not  remember 


82  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

anything  about  that  dinner.  The  memory  of  it  has 
gone.  I  do  recall  looking  about  the  dining  room,  and 
feeling  a  little  odd  and  lonely,  being  the  only  woman. 
Then  a  gun  boomed  somewhere  outside,  and  an  alarm 
bell  commenced  to  ring  rapidly  almost  overhead. 
Instantly  the  officers  in  the  room  were  on  their  feet, 
and  every  light  went  out. 

The  maitre  d'hotel,  Emil,  groped  his  way  to  my 
table  and  struck  a  match. 

"Aeroplanes!"  he  said. 

There  was  much  laughing  and  talking  as  the  officers 
moved  to  the  door.  The  heavy  velvet  curtains  were 
drawn.  Some  one  near  the  door  lighted  a  candle. 

"Where  shall  I  go?"  I  asked. 

Emil,  unlike  the  officers,  was  evidently  nervous. 

"Madame  is  as  safe  here  as  anywhere,"  he  said. 
"But  if  she  wishes  to  join  the  others  in  the  cellar " 

I  wanted  to  go  to  the  cellar  or  to  crawl  into  the  office 
safe.  But  I  felt  that,  as  the  only  woman  and  the  only 
American  about,  I  held  the  reputation  of  America  and 
of  my  sex  in  my  hands.  The  waiters  had  gone  to 
the  cellar.  The  officers  had  flocked  to  the  cafe  on  the 
ground  floor  underneath.  The  alarm  bell  was  still 
ringing.  Over  the  candle,  stuck  in  a  saucer,  Emil's 
face  looked  white  and  drawn. 

"I  shall  stay  here,"  I  said.  "And  I  shall  have 
coffee." 

The  coffee  was  not  bravado.  I  needed  something 
hot. 

The  gun,  which  had  ceased,  began  to  fire  again. 
And  then  suddenly,  not  far  away,  a  bomb  exploded. 
Even  through  the  closed  and  curtained  windows  the 
noise  was  terrific.  Emil  placed  my  coffee  before  me 
with  shaking  hands,  and  disappeared. 


THE  NIGHT  RAID  ON  DUNKIRK  83 

Another  crash,  and  another,  both  very  close ! 

There  is  nothing  that  I  know  of  more  hideous  than 
an  aerial  bombardment.  It  requires  an  entire  mental 
readjustment.  The  sky,  which  has  always  symbolised 
peace,  suddenly  spells  death.  Bombardment  by  the 
big  guns  of  an  advancing  army  is  not  unexpected. 
There  is  time  for  flight,  a  chance,  too,  for  a  reprisal. 
But  against  these  raiders  of  the  sky  there  is  nothing. 
One  sits  and  waits.  And  no  town  is  safe.  One 
moment  there  is  a  peaceful  village  with  war  twenty, 
fifty  miles  away.  The  next  minute  hell  breaks  loose. 
Houses  are  destroyed.  Sleeping  children  die  in  their 
cradles.  The  streets  echo  and  reecho  with  the  din  of 
destruction.  The  reply  of  the  anti-aircraft  guns  is 
feeble,  and  at  night  futile.  There  is  no  bustle  of 
escape.  The  streets  are  empty  and  dead,  and  in  each 
house  people,  family  groups,  noncombatants,  folk  who 
ask  only  the  right  to  work  and  love  and  live,  sit  and 
wait  with  blanched  faces. 

More  explosions,  nearer  still.  They  were  trying 
for  the  Maine,  which  was  round  the  corner. 

In  the  corridor  outside  the  dining  room  a  candle 
was  lighted,  and  the  English  officer  who  had  reas- 
sured me  earlier  in  the  evening  came  in. 

"You  need  not  be  alarmed,"  he  said  cheerfully. 
"It  is  really  nothing.  But  out  in  the  corridor  it  is 
quite  safe  and  not  so  lonely." 

I  went  out.  Two  or  three  Belgian  officers  were 
there,  gathered  round  a  table  on  which  was  a  candle 
stuck  in  a  glass.  They  were  having  their  after-dinner 
liqueurs  and  talking  of  many  things.  No  one  spoke 
of  what  was  happening  outside.  I  was  given  a  corner, 
as  being  out  of  the  draft. 

The  explosions  were  incessant  now.     With  each 


84  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

one  the  landlady  downstairs  screamed.  As  they  came 
closer,  cries  and  French  adjectives  came  up  the  stair- 
case beside  me  in  a  nerve-destroying  staccato  of  terror. 

At  nine-thirty,  when  the  aeroplanes  had  been  over- 
head for  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  there  came  a  period 
of  silence.  There  were  no  more  explosions. 

"It  is  over,"  said  one  of  the  Belgian  officers,  smil- 
ing. "It  is  over,  and  madame  lives!" 

But  it  was  not  over. 

I  took  advantage  of  the  respite  to  do  the  forbidden 
thing  and  look  out  through  one  of  the  windows.  The 
moon  had  come  up  and  the  square  was  flooded  with 
light.  All  around  were  silent  houses.  No  ray  of  light 
filtered  through  their  closed  and  shuttered  windows. 
The  street  lamps  were  out.  Not  an  automobile  was  to 
be  seen,  not  a  hurrying  human  figure,  not  a  dog.  No 
night  prowler  disturbed  that  ghastly  silence.  The 
town  lay  dead  under  the  clear  and  peaceful  light  of 
the  moon.  The  white  paving  stones  of  the  square 
gleamed,  and  in  the  centre,  saturnine  and  defiant,  stood 
uninjured  the  statue  of  Jean  Bart,  privateer  and  pri- 
vate of  Dunkirk. 

Crash  again!  It  was  not  over.  The  attack  com- 
menced with  redoubled  fury.  If  sound  were  destruc- 
tive the  little  town  of  Dunkirk  would  be  off  the  map 
of  Northern  France  to-day.  Sixty-seven  bombs  were 
dropped  in  the  hour  or  so  that  the  Germans  were  over- 
head. 

The  bombardment  continued.  My  feet  were  very 
cold,  my  head  hot.  The  lady  manager  was  silent; 
perhaps  she  had  fainted.  But  Emil  reappeared  for  a 
moment,  his  round  white  face  protruding  above  the 
staircase  well,  to  say  that  a  Zeppelin  was  reported  on 
•the  way. 


THE  NIGHT  RAID  ON  DUNKIRK  85 

Then  at  last  silence,  broken  soon  by  the  rumble  of 
ambulances  as  they  started  on  their  quest  for  the  dead 
and  the  wounded.  And  Emil  was  wrong.  There  was 
no  Zeppelin.  The  night  raid  on  Dunkirk  was  history. 

The  lights  did  not  come  on  again.  From  that  time 
on  for  several  weeks  Dunkirk  lay  at  night  in  darkness. 
Houses  showing  a  light  were  fined  by  the  police. 
Automobiles  were  forbidden  the  use  of  lamps.  One 
crept  along  the  streets  and  the  roads  surrounding  the 
town  in  a  mysterious  and  nerve-racking  blackness 
broken  only  by  the  shaded  lanterns  of  the  sentries  as 
they  stepped  out  with  their  sharp  command  to  stop. 

The  result  of  the  raid?  It  was  largely  moral,  a  part 
of  that  campaign  of  terrorisation  which  is  so  strangely 
a  part  of  the  German  system,  which  has  set  its  army 
to  burning  cities,  to  bombarding  the  unfortified  coast 
towns  of  England,  to  shooting  civilians  in  conquered 
Belgium,  and  which  now  sinks  the  pitiful  vessels  of 
small  traders  and  fishermen  in  the  submarine-infested 
waters  of  the  British  Channel.  It  gained  no  military 
advantage,  was  intended  to  gain  no  military  advan- 
tage. Not  a  soldier  died.  The  great  stores  of  military 
supplies  were  not  wrecked.  The  victims  were,  as 
usual,  women  and  children.  The  houses  destroyed 
were  the  small  and  peaceful  houses  of  noncombatants. 
Only  two  men  were  killed.  They  were  in  a  side  street 
when  the  first  bomb  dropped,  and  they  tried  to  find  an 
unlocked  door,  an  open  house,  anything  for  shelter. 
It  was  impossible.  Built  like  all  French  towns,  with- 
out arcades  or  sheltering  archways,  the  flat  facades  of 
the  closed  and  barricaded  houses  refused  them  sanc- 
tuary. The  second  bomb  killed  them  both. 

Through  all  that  night  after  the  bombardment  I 
could  hear  each  hour  the  call  of  the  trumpet  from  the 


86  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

great  overhanging  tower,  a  double  note  at  once  thin 
and  musical,  that  reported  no  enemy  in  sight  in  the 
sky  and  all  well.  From  far  away,  at  the  gate  in  the 
wall,  came  the  reply  of  the  distant  watchman's  horn 
softened  by  distance. 

"All  well  here  also,"  it  said. 

Following  the  trumpets  the  soft-toned  chimes  of  the 
church  rang  out  a  hymn  that  has  chimed  from  the  old 
tower  every  hour  for  generations,  extolling  and  prais- 
ing the  Man  of  Peace. 

The  ambulances  had  finished  their  work.  The  dead 
lay  with  folded  hands,  surrounded  by  candles,  the 
lights  of  faith.  And  under  the  fading  moon  the  old 
city  rested  and  watched. 


CHAPTER  IX 
NO  MAN'S  LAND 


FROM  MY  JOURNAL: 

T  HAVE  just  had  this  conversation  with  the  little 
•••  French  chambermaid  at  my  hotel.  "You  have  not 
gone  to  mass,  Mademoiselle?" 

"I?    No." 

"But  here,  so  near  the  lines,  I  should  think " 

"I  do  not  go  to  church.  There  is  no  God."  She 
looked  up  with  red-rimmed,  defiant  eyes.  "My  hus- 
band has  been  killed,"  she  said.  "There  is  no  God. 
If  there  was  a  God,  why  should  my  husband  be  killed? 
He  had  done  nothing." 

This  afternoon  at  three-thirty  I  am  to  start  for  the 
front.  I  am  to  see  everything.  The  machine  leaves 
the  Mairie  at  three-thirty. 

Do  you  recall  the  school  map  on  which  the  state  of 
Texas  was  always  pink  and  Rhode  Island  green? 
And  Canada  a  region  without  colour,  and  therefore 
without  existence? 

The  map  of  Europe  has  become  a  battle  line  painted 
in  three  colours:  yellow  for  the  Belgian  Army,  blue 
^for  the  British  and  red  for  the  French.  It  is  really  a 
double  line,  for  the  confronting  German  Army  is 
drawn  in  black.  It  is  a  narrow  line  to  signify  what  it 
does — not  only  death  and  wanton  destruction,  but  the 

87 


88  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

end  of  the  myth  of  civilisation;  a  narrow  line  to  prove 
that  the  brotherhood  of  man  is  a  dream,  that  modern 
science  is  but  an  improvement  on  fifth-century  bar- 
barity; that  right,  after  all,  is  only  might. 

It  took  exactly  twenty-four  hours  to  strip  the  shirt 
off  the  diplomacy  of  Europe  and  show  the  coat  of 
mail  underneath. 

It  will  take  a  century  to  hide  that  coat  of  mail.  It 
will  take  a  thousand  years  to  rebuild  the  historic  towns 
of  Belgium.  But  not  years,  nor  a  reclothed  diplomacy, 
nor  the  punishment  of  whichever  traitor  to  the  world 
brought  this  thing  to  pass,  nor  anything  but  God's 
great  eternity,  will  ever  restore  to  one  mother  her 
uselessly  sacrificed  son ;  will  quicken  one  of  the  figures 
that  lie  rotting  along  the  battle  line;  will  heal  this 
scar  that  extends,  yellow  and  blue  and  red  and  black, 
across  the  heart  of  Western  Europe. 

It  is  a  long  scar — long  and  irregular.  It  begins  at 
Nieuport,  on  the  North  Sea,  extends  south  to  the 
region  of  Soissons,  east  to  Verdun,  and  then  irregu- 
larly southeast  to  the  Swiss  border. 

The  map  from  which  I  am  working  was  coloured 
and  marked  for  me  by  General  Foch,  commander  of 
the  French  Army  of  the  North,  at  his  headquarters. 
It  is  a  little  map,  and  so  this  line,  which  crosses  em- 
pires and  cuts  civilisation  in  half,  is  only  fourteen 
inches  long,  although  it  represents  a  battle  line  of  over 
four  hundred  miles.  Of  this  the  Belgian  front  is  one- 
half  inch,  or  approximately  one-twenty-eighth.  The 
British  front  is  a  trifle  more  than  twice  as  long.  All 
the  rest  of  that  line  is  red — French. 

That  is  the  most  impressive  thing  about  the  map,  the 
length  of  the  French  line. 

With  the  arrival  of  Kitchener's  army  this  last  spring" 


NO  MAN'S  LAND  89 

the  blue  portion  grew  somewhat  The  yellow  re- 
mained as  it  was,  for  the  Belgian  casualties  have  been 
two-thirds  of  her  army.  There  have  been  many  trag- 
edies in  Belgium.  That  is  one  of  them. 

In  the  very  north  then,  yellow;  then  a  bit  of  red; 
below  that  blue;  then  red  again  in  that  long  sweep- 
ing curve  that  is  the  French  front.  Occasionally  the 
line  moves  a  trifle  forward  or  back,  like  the  shift- 
ing record  of  a  fever  chart;  but  in  general  it  remains 
the  same.  It  has  remained  the  same  since  the  first  of 
November.  A  movement  to  thrust  it  forward  in  any 
one  place  is  followed  by  a  counter-attack  in  another 
place.  The  reserves  must  be  drawn  off  and  hurried 
to  the  threatened  spot.  Automatically  the  line  straight- 
ens again. 

The  little  map  is  dated  the  twenty-third  of  Feb- 
ruary. All  through  the  spring  and  summer  the  line 
has  remained  unchanged.  There  will  be  no  change 
until  one  side  or  the  other  begins  a  great  offensive 
movement.  After  that  it  will  be  a  matter  of  the  ir- 
resistible, force  and  the  immovable  body,  a  question  not 
of  maps  but  of  empires. 

Between  the  confronting  lines  lies  that  tragic  strip 
of  No  Man's  Land,  which  has  been  and  is  the  scene 
of  so  much  tragedy.  No  Man's  Land  is  of  fixed 
length  but  of  varying  width.  There  are  places  where 
it  is  very  narrow,  so  narrow  that  it  is  possible  to 
throw  across  a  hand  grenade  or  a  box  of  cigarettes, 
depending  on  the  nearness  of  an  officer  whose  business 
is  war.  Again  it  is  wide,  so  that  friendly  relations 
are  impossible,  and  sniping  becomes  a  pleasure  as  well 
as  an  art. 

It  was  No  Man's  Land  that  I  was  to  visit  the  night 
of  the  entry  in  my  journal. 


90  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

From  the  neighbourhood  of  Ypres  to  the  Swiss  bor- 
der No  Man's  Land  varies.  The  swamps  and  flat 
ground  give  way  to  more  rolling  country,  and  this  to 
hills.  But  in  the  north  No  Man's  Land  is  a  series  of 
shallow  lakes,  lying  in  flat,  unprotected  country. 

For  Belgium,  in  desperation,  last  October  opened 
the  sluices  and  let  in  the  sea.  It  crept  in  steadily,  each 
high  tide  advancing  the  flood  farther.  It  followed 
the  lines  of  canal  and  irrigation  ditches  mile  after 
mile  till  it  had  got  as  far  south  as  Ypres,  beyond  Ypres 
indeed.  To  the  encroachment  of  the  sea  was  added 
the  flooding  resulting  from  an  abnormally  rainy  win- 
ter. Ordinarily  the  ditches  have  carried  off  the  rain; 
now  even  where  the  inundation  does  not  reach  it  lies 
in  great  ponds.  Belgium's  fertile  sugar-beet  fields  are 
under  salt  water. 

The  method  was  effectual,  during  the  winter,  at 
least,  in  retarding  the  German  advance.  Their  artil- 
lery destroyed  the  towns  behind  the  opposing  trenches 
of  the  Allies,  but  their  attempts  to  advance  through  the 
flood  failed. 

Even  where  the  floods  were  shallow — only  two  feet 
or  so— they  served  their  purpose  in  masking  the  char- 
acter of  the  land.  From  a  wading  depth  of  two  feet, 
charging  soldiers  stepped  frequently  into  a  deep  ditch 
and  drowned  ignominiously. 

It  is  a  noble  thing,  war !  It  is  good  for  a  country ! 
It  unites  its  people  and  develops  national  spirit! 

Great  poems  have  been  written  about  charges.  Will 
tfiere  ever  be  any  great  poems  about  these  men  who 
have  been  drowned  in  ditches  ?  Or  about  the  soldiers 
who  have  been  caught  in  the  barbed  wire  with  which 
these  inland  lakes  are  filled?  Or  about  the  wounded 
who  fall  helpless  into  the  flood? 


NO  MAN'S  LAND  91 

The  inland  lakes  that  ripple  under  the  wind  from 
the  sea,  or  gleam  silver  in  the  light  of  the  moon,  are 
beautiful,  hideous,  filled  with  bodies  that  rise  and 
float,  face  down.  And  yet  here  and  there  the  situa- 
tion is  not  without  a  sort  of  grim  humour.  Brilliant 
engineers  on  one  side  or  the  other  are  experimenting 
with  the  flood.  Occasionally  trenches  hitherto  dry  and 
fairly  comfortable  find  themselves  unexpectedly  filling 
with  water,  as  the  other  side  devises  some  clever 
scheme  for  turning  the  flood  from  a  menace  into  a 
military  asset. 

In  No  Man's  Land  are  the  outposts. 

The  fighting  of  the  winter  has  mystified  many  non- 
combatants,  with  its  advances  and  retreats,  which  have 
yet  resulted  in  no  definite  change  of  the  line.  In 
many  instances  this  sharp  fighting  has  been  a  matter 
of  outposts,  generally  farms,  churches  or  other  iso- 
lated buildings,  sometimes  even  tiny  villages.  In  the 
inundated  portion  of  Belgium  these  outposts  are  build- 
ings which,  situated  on  rather  higher  land,  a  foot  or 
two  above  the  flood,  have  become  islands.  Much  of 
the  fighting  in  the  north  has  been  about  these  island 
outposts.  Under  the  conditions,  charges  must  be  made 
by  relatively  small  bodies  of  men.  The  outposts  can 
similarly  house  but  few  troops. 

They  are  generally  defended  by  barbed  wire  and  a 
few  quick-firing  guns.  Their  purpose  is  strategical; 
they  are  vantage  points  from  which  the  enemy  may 
be  closely  watched.  They  change  sides  frequently; 
are  won  and  lost,  and  won  again. 

Here  and  there  the  side  at  the  time  in  command  of 
the  outpost  builds  out  from  its  trenches  through  the 
flood  a  pathway  of  bags  of  earth,  topped  by  fascines 
pr  bundles  of  fagots  tied  together.  Such  a  path  pays 


92  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

a  tribute  of  many  lives  for  every  yard  of  advance. 
It  is  built  under  fire;  it  remains  under  fire.  It  is 
destroyed  and  reconstructed. 

When  I  reached  the  front  the  British,  Belgian  and 
French  troops  in  the  north  had  been  fighting  under 
these  conditions  for  four  months.  My  first  visit  to  the 
trenches  was  made  under  the  auspices  of  the  Belgian 
Ministry  of  War.  The  start  was  made  from  the 
Maine  in  Dunkirk,  accompanied  by  the  necessary 
passes  and  escorted  by  an  attache  of  the  Military 
Cabinet. 

I  was  taken  in  an  automobile  from  Dunkirk  to  the 
Belgian  Army  Headquarters,  where  an  officer  of  the 

headquarters  staff,  Captain  F ',  took  charge.  The 

headquarters  had  been  a  brewery. 

Stripped  of  the  impedimenta  of  its  previous  occu- 
pation, it  now  housed  the  officers  of  the  staff. 

Since  that  time  I  have  frequently  visited  the  head- 
quarters staffs  of  various  armies  or  their  divisions.  I 
became  familiar  with  the  long,  bare  tables  stacked 
with  papers,  the  lamps,  the  maps  on  the  walls,  the 
telephones,  the  coming  and  going  of  dispatch  riders  in 
black  leather.  I  came  to  know  something  of  the 
chafing  restlessness  of  these  men  who  must  sit,  well 
behind  the  firing  line,  and  play  paper  battles  on  which 
lives  and  empires  hang. 

But  one  thing  never  ceased  to  puzzle  me. 

That  night,  in  a  small  kitchen  behind  the  Belgian 
headquarters  rooms,  a  French  peasant  woman  was 
cooking  the  evening  meal.  Always,  at  all  the  head- 
quarters that  were  near  the  front,  somewhere  in  a  back 
room  was  a  resigned-looking  peasant  woman  cooking 
a  meal.  Children  hung  about  the  stove  or  stood  in 
corners  looking  out  at  the  strange  new  life  that  sur- 


NO  MAN'S  LAND  93 

rounded  them.  Peasants  too  old  for  war,  their  occu- 
pations gone,  sat  listlessly  with  hanging  hands,  their 
faces  the  faces  of  bewildered  children;  their  clean 
floors  were  tracked  by  the  muddy  boots  of  soldiers; 
their  orderly  lives  disturbed,  uprooted ;  their  once  tidy 
farmyards  were  filled  with  transports;  their  barns 
with  army  horses ;  their  windmills,  instead  of  housing 
sacks  of  grain,  were  occupied  by  mitrailleuses. 

What  were  the  thoughts  of  these  people?  What 
are  they  thinking  now? — for  they  are  still  there. 
What  does  it  all  mean  to  them?  Do  they  ever  glance 
at  the  moving  cord  of  the  war  map  on  the  wall?  Is 
this  war  to  them  only  a  matter  of  a  courtyard  or  a 
windmill?  Of  mud  and  the  upheaval  of  quiet  lives? 
They  appear  to  be  waiting — for  spring,  probably, 
and  the  end  of  hostilities;  for  spring  and  the  plant- 
ing of  crops,  for  quiet  nights  to  sleep  and  days  to 
labour. 

The  young  men  are  always  at  the  front.  They  who 
are  left  express  confidence  that  these  their  sons  and 
husbands  will  return.  And  yet  in  the  spring  many  of 
them  ploughed  shallow  over  battlefields. 

It  had  been  planned  to  show  me  first  a  detail  map 
of  the  places  I  was  to  visit,  and  with  this  map  before 
me  to  explain  the  present  position  of  the  Belgian  line 
along  the  embankment  of  the  railroad  from  Nieuport 
to  Dixmude.  The  map  was  ready  on  a  table  in  the 
officers'  mess,  a  bare  room  with  three  long  tables  of 
planks,  to  which  a  flight  of  half  a  dozen  steps  led  from 
the  headquarters  room  below. 

Twilight  had  fallen  by  that  time.  It  had  com- 
menced to  rain.  I  could  see  through  the  window 
heavy  drops  that  stirred  the  green  surface  of  the  moat 
at  one  side  of  the  old  building.  On  the  wall  hung 


94  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

the  advertisement  of  an  American  harvester,  a  remind- 
er of  more  peaceful  days.  The  beating  of  the  rain 

kept  time  to  the  story  Captain  F told  that  night, 

bending  over  the  map  and  tracing  his  country's  ruin 
with  his  forefinger. 

Much  of  it  is  already  history.  The  surprise  and 
fury  of  the  Germans  on  discovering  that  what  they 
had  considered  a  contemptible  military  force  was  suc- 
cessfully holding  them  back  until  the  English  and 
French  Armies  could  get  into  the  field;  the  policy  of 
systematic  terrorism  that  followed  this  discovery;  the 
unpreparedness  of  Belgium's  allies,  which  left  this 
heroic  little  army  practically  unsupported  for  so  long 
against  the  German  tidal  wave. 

The  great  battle  of  the  Yser  is  also  history.  I  shall 
not  repeat  the  dramatic  recital  of  the  Belgian  retreat 
to  this  point,  fighting  a  rear-guard  engagement  as  they 
fell  back  before  three  times  their  number;  of  the  fury 
of  the  German  onslaught,  which  engaged  the  entire 
Belgian  front,  so  that  there  was  no  rest,  not  a  mo- 
ment's cessation.  In  one  night  at  Dixmude  the  Ger- 
mands  made  fifteen  attacks.  Is  it  any  wonder  that 
two-thirds  of  Belgium's  Army  is  gone? 

They  had  fought  since  the  third  of  August.  It  was 
on  the  twenty-first  of  October  that  they  at  last  retired 
across  the  Yser  and  two  days  later  took  up  their  pres- 
ent position  at  the  railway  embankment.  On  that  day, 
the  twenty-third  of  October,  the  first  French  troops 
arrived  to  assist  them,  some  eighty-five  hundred  reach- 
ing Nieuport. 

It  was  the  hope  of  the  Belgians  that,  the  French 
taking  their  places  on  the  line,  they  could  retire  for  a 
time  as  reserves  and  get  a  little  rest.  But  the  German 
attack  continuing  fiercely  against  the  combined  armies 


NO  MAN'S  LAND  95 

of  the  Allies,  the  Belgians  were  forced  to  go  into 
action  again,  weary  as  they  were,  at  the  historic  curve 
of  the  Yser,  where  was  fought  the  great  battle  of  the 
war.  At  British  Headquarters  later  on  I  was  given 
the  casualties  of  that  battle,  when  the  invading  Ger-  , 
man  Army  flung  itself  again  and  again,  for  nineteen  ' 
days,  against  the  forces  of  the  Allies:  The  English 
casualties  for  that  period  were  forty-five  thousand ;  the 
French,  seventy  thousand;  the  German,  by  figures 
given  out  at  Berlin,  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand. 
The  Belgian  I  do  not  know. 

"It  was  after  that  battle,"   said  Captain  F , 

"that  the  German  dead  were  taken  back  and  burned, 
to  avoid  pestilence." 

The  Belgians  had  by  this  time  reached  the  limit  of 
their  resources.  It  was  then  that  the  sluices  were 
opened  and  their  fertile  lowlands  flooded. 

On  the  thirty-first  of  October  the  water  stopped  the 
German  advance  along  the  Belgian  lines.  As  soon  as 
they  discovered  what  had  been  done  the  Germans  made 
terrific  and  furious  efforts  to  get  forward  ahead  of  it. 
They  got  into  the  towns  of  Ramscappelle  and  Pervyse, 
where  furious  street  fighting  occurred. 

Pervyse  was  taken  five  times  and  lost  five  times. 
But  all  their  efforts  failed.  The  remnant  of  the  Bel- 
gian Army  had  retired  to  the  railroad  embankment. 
The  English  and  French  lines  held  firm. 

For  the  time,  at  least,  the  German  advance  was 
checked. 

That  was  Captain  F — > — 's  story  of  the  battle  of 
the  Yser. 

When  he  had  finished  he  drew  out  of  his  pocket  the 
diary  of  a  German  officer  killed  at  the  Yser  during 
the  first  days  of  the  fighting,  and  read  it  aloud.  It  is 


96  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

a  great  human  document.    I  give  here  as  nearly  as  pos- 
sible a  literal  translation. 

It  was  written  during  the  first  days  of  the  great 
battle.  For  fifteen  days  after  he  was  killed  the  Ger- 
man offensive  kept  up.  General  Foch,  who  com- 
manded the  French  Army  of  the  North  during  that 
time,  described  their  method  to  me.  "The  Germans 
came,"  he  said,  "like  the  waves  of  the  sea !" 

The  diary  of  a  German  officer,  killed  at  the  Yser: — > 
Twenty- fourth  of  October,  1914: 

"The  battle  goes  on — we  are  trying  to  effect  a  cross- 
ing of  the  Yser.  Beginning  at  5  145  P.M.  the  engineers 
go  on  preparing  their  bridging  materials.  Marching 
quickly  over  the  country,  crossing  fields  and  ditches, 
we  are  exposed  to  continuous  heavy  fire,  A  spent 
bullet  strikes  me  in  the  back,  just  below  the  coat  col- 
lar, but  I  am  not  wounded. 

"Taking  up  a  position  near  Vandewonde  farm,  we 
are  able  to  obtain  a  little  shelter  from  the  devastating 
fire  of  the  enemy's  artillery.  How  terrible  is  our 
situation !  By  taking  advantage  of  all  available  cover 
we  arrive  at  the  fifth  trench,  where  the  artillery  is  in 
action  and  rifle  fire  is  incessant.  We  know  nothing  of 
the  general  situation.  I  do  not  know  where  the  enemy 
is,  or  what  numbers  are  opposed  to  us,  and  there  seems 
no  way  of  getting  the  desired  information. 

"Everywhere  along  the  line  we  are  suffering  heavy 
losses,  altogether  out  of  proportion  to  the  results 
obtained.  The  enemy's  artillery  is  too  well  sheltered, 
too  strong;  and  as  our  own  guns,  fewer  in  number, 
have  not  been  able  to  silence  those  of  the  enemy,  our 


NO  MAN'S  LAND  97 

infantry  is  unable  to  make  any  advance.  We  are  suf- 
fering heavy  and  useless  losses. 

"The  medical  service  on  the  field  has  been  found 
very  wanting.  At  Dixmude,  in  one  place,  no  less  than 
forty  frightfully  wounded  men  were  left  lying  uncared 
for.  The  medical  corps  is  kept  back  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Yser  without  necessity.  It  is  equally  impossible 
to  receive  water  and  rations  in  any  regular  way. 

"For  several  days  now  we  have  not  tasted  a  warm 
meal;  bread  and  other  things  are  lacking;  our  reserve 
rations  are  exhausted.  The  water  is  bad,  quite  green, 
indeed;  but  all  the  same  we  drink  it — we  can  get 
nothing  else.  Man  is  brought  down  to  the  level  of 
the  brute  beast.  Myself,  I  have  nothing  left  to  eat; 
I  left  what  I  had  with  me  in  the  saddlebags  on  my 
horse.  In  fact,  we  were  not  told  what  we  should 
have  to  do  on  this  side  of  the  Yser,  and  we  did  not 
know  that  our  horses  would  have  to  be  left  on  the 
other  side.  That  is  why  we  could  not  arrange  things. 

"I  am  living  on  what  other  people,  like  true  com- 
rades, are  willing  to  give  me,  but  even  then  my  share 
is  only  very  small.  There  is  no  thought  of  changing 
our  linen  or  our  clothes  in  any  way.  It  is  an  incredi- 
ble situation!  On  every  hand  farms  and  villages  are 
burning.  How  sad  a  spectacle,  indeed,  to  see  this  mag- 
nificent region  all  in  ruins,  wounded  and  dead  lying 
everywhere  all  round." 

Twenty-fifth  of  October,  1914: 

"A  relatively  undisturbed  night.  The  safety  of  the 
bridge  over  the  Yser  has  been  assured  for  a  time.  The 
battle  has  gone  on  the  whole  day  long.  We  have  not 
been  given  any  definite  orders.  One  would  not  think 


98  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

this  is  Sunday.  The  infantry  and  artillery  combat  is 
incessant,  but  no  definite  result  is  achieved.  Nothing 
but  losses  in  wounded  and  killed.  We  shall  try  to  get 
into  touch  with  the  sixth  division  of  the  Third  Reserve 
Army  Corps  on  our  right." 

Twenty-sixth  of  October,  1914: 

"What  a  frightful  night  has  gone  by !  There  was  a 
terrible  rainstorm.  I  felt  frozen.  I  remained  stand- 
ing knee-deep  in  water.  To-day  an  uninterrupted 
fusillade  meets  us  in  front.  We  shall  throw  a  bridge 
across  the  Yser,  for  the  enemy's  artillery  has  again 
destroyed  one  we  had  previously  constructed. 

"The  situation  is  practically  unchanged.  No  prog- 
ress has  been  made  in  spite  of  incessant  fighting,  in 
spite  of  the  barking  of  the  guns  and  the  cries  of  alarm 
of  those  human  beings  so  uselessly  killed.  The  infan- 
try is  worthless  until  our  artillery  has  silenced  the 
enemy's  guns.  Everywhere  we  must  be  losing  heavily ; 
our  own  company  has  suffered  greatly  so  far.  The 
colonel,  the  major,  and,  indeed,  many  other  officers  are 
already  wounded;  several  are  dead. 

"There  has  not  yet  been  any  chance  of  taking  off 
our  boots  and  washing  ourselves.  The  Sixth  Division 
is  ready,  but  its  help  is  insufficient.  The  situation  is 
no  clearer  than  before;  we  can  learn  nothing  of  what 
is  going  on.  Again  we  are  setting  off  for  wet  trenches. 
Our  regiment  is  mixed  up  with  other  regiments  in  an 
inextricable  fashion.  No  battalion,  no  company, 
knows  anything  about  where  the  other  units  of  the 
regiment  are  to  be  found.  Everything  is  jumbled 
under  this  terrible  fire  which  enfilades  from  all  sides. 

"There  are  numbers  of  francs-tireurs.    Our  second 


NO  MAN'S  LAND  99 

battalion  is  going  to  be  placed  under  the  order  of  the 
Cyckortz  Regiment,  made  up  of  quite  diverse  units. 
Our  old  regiment  is  totally  broken  up.  The  situation 
is  terrible.  To  be  under  a  hail  of  shot  and  shell, 
without  any  respite,  and  know  nothing  whatever  of 
one's  own  troops !  j 

"It  is  to  be  hoped  that  soon  the  situation  will  be 
improved.  These  conditions  cannot  be  borne  very 
much  longer.  I  am  hopeless.  The  battalion  is  under 
the  command  of  Captain  May,  and  I  am  reduced  to 
acting  as  Fourier.  It  is  not  at  all  an  easy  thing  to 
do  in  our  present  frightful  situation.  In  the  black 
night  soldiers  must  be  sent  some  distance  in  order  to 
get  and  bring  back  the  food  so  much  needed  by  their 
comrades.  They  have  brought  back,  too,  cards  and 
letters  from  those  we  love.  What  a  consolation  in 
our  cheerless  situation !  We  cannot  have  a  light,  how- 
ever, so  we  are  forced  to  put  into  our  pockets,  unread, 
the  words  of  comfort  sent  by  our  dear  ones — we  have 
to  wait  till  the  following  morning. 

"So  we  spend  the  night  again  on  straw,  huddled 
up  close  one  to  another  in  order  to  keep  warm.  It  is 
horribly  cold  and  damp.  All  at  once  a  violent  rattle 
of  rifle  fire  raises  us  for  the  combat;  hastily  we  get 
ready,  shivering,  almost  frozen." 

Twenty-seventh  of  October,  1914: 

"At  dawn  I  take  advantage  of  a  few  moments'  res- 
pite to  read  over  the  kind  wishes  which  have  come 
from  home.  What  happiness!  Soon,  however,  the 
illusion  leaves  me.  The  situation  here  is  still  all  con- 
fusion; we  cannot  think  of  advancing " 

The  last  sentence  is  a  broken  one.    For  he  died. 


loo  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

Morning  came  and  he  read  his  letters  from  home. 
They  cheered  him  a  little;  we  can  be  glad  of  that,  at 
least.  And  then  he  died. 

That  record  is  a  great  human  document.  It  is 
absolutely  genuine.  He  was  starving  and  cold.  As 
fast  as  they  built  a  bridge  to  get  back  it  was  destroyed. 
From  three  sides  he  and  the  others  with  him  were 
being  shelled.  He  must  have  known  what  the  inev- 
itable end  would  be.  But  he  said  very  little.  And 
then  he  died. 

There  were  other  journels  taken  from  the  bodies  of 
other  German  officers  at  that  terrible  battle  of  the 
Yser.  They  speak  of  it  as  a  "hell" — a  place  of  tor- 
ment and  agony  impossible  to  describe.  Some  of 
them  I  have  seen.  There  is  nowhere  in  the  world  a 
more  pitiful  or  tragic  or  thought-compelling  literature 
than  these  diaries  of  German  officers  thrust  forward 
without  hope  and  waiting  for  the  end. 

At  six  o'clock  it  was  already  entirely  dark  and  rain- 
ing hard.  Even  in  the  little  town  the  machine  was 
deep  in  mud.  I  got  in  and  we  started  off  again,  mov- 
ing steadily  toward  the  front.  Captain  F had 

brought  with  him  a  box  of  biscuits,  large,  square,  flaky 
crackers,  which  were  to  be  my  dinner  until  some  time 
in  the  night.  He  had  an  electric  flash  and  a  map. 
The  roads  were  horrible;  it  was  impossible  to  move 
rapidly.  Here  and  there  a  sentry's  lantern  would  show 
him  standing  on  the  edge  of  a  flooded  field.  The  car 
careened,  righted  itself  and  kept  on.  As  the  roads 
became  narrower  it  was  impossible  to  pass  another 
vehicle.  The  car  drew  out  at  crossroads  here  and 
there  to  allow  transports  to  get  by, 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  IRON  DIVISION 


IT  was  bitterly  cold,  and  the  dead  officer's  diary 
weighed  on  my  spirit.  The  two  officers  in  the 
machine  pored  over  the  map ;  I  sat  huddled  in  my  cor- 
ner. I  had  come  a  long  distance  to  do  the  thing  I  was 
doing.  But  my  enthusiasm  for  it  had  died.  I  wished 
I  had  not  heard  the  diary. 

"At  dawn  I  take  advantage  of  a  few  moments' 
respite  to  read  over  the  kind  wishes  which  have  come 
from  home.  What  happiness !"  And  then  he  died. 

The  car  jolted  on. 

The  soldier  and  the  military  chauffeur  out  in  front 
were  drenched.  The  wind  hurled  the  rain  at  them 
like  bullets.  We  were  getting  close  to  the  front. 
There  were  shellholes  now,  great  ruts  into  which  the 
car  dropped  and  pulled  out  again  with  a  jerk. 

Then  at  last  a  huddle  of  dark  houses  and  a  sentry's 
challenge.  The  car  stopped  and  we  got  out.  Again 
there  were  seas  of  mud,  deeper  even  than  before.  I 
had  reached  the  headquarters  of  the  Third  Division 
of  the  Belgian  Army,  commonly  known  as  the  Iron 
Division,  so  nicknamed  for  its  heroic  work  in  this  war. 

The  headquarters  building  was  ironically  called  the 
"chateau."  It  had  been  built  by  officers  and  men,  of 
fresh  boards  and  lined  neatly  inside  with  newspapers. 
Some  of  them  were  illustrated  French  papers.  It  had 

101 


102  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

much  the  appearance  of  a  Western  shack  during  the 
early  days  of  the  gold  fever.  On  one  of  the  walls  was 
a  war  map  of  the  Eastern  front,  the  line  a  cord  fas- 
tened into  place  with  flag  pins.  The  last  time  I  had 
seen  such  a  map  of  the  Eastern  front  was  in  the 
Cabinet  Room  at  Washington. 

A  large  stove  in  the  centre  of  the  room  heated  the 
building,  which  was  both  light  and  warm.  Some  fif- 
teen officers  received  us.  I  was  the  only  woman  who 
had  been  so  near  the  front,  for  out  here  there  are  no 
nurses.  One  by  one  they  were  introduced  and  bowed. 
There  were  fifteen  hosts  and  extremely  few  guests! 

Having  had  telephone  notice  of  our  arrival,  they 
showed  me  how  carefully  they  had  prepared  for  it. 
The  long  desk  was  in  beautiful  order;  floors  gleamed 
snow  white;  the  lamp  chimneys  were  polished.  There 
were  sandwiches  and  tea  ready  to  be  served. 

In  one  room  was  the  telephone  exchange,  whicfJ 
connected  the  headquarters  with  every  part  of  the  line. 
In  another,  a  long  line  of  American  typewriters  and 
mimeographing  machines  wrote  out  and  copied  the 
orders  which  were  regularly  distributed  to  the  front. 

"Will  you  see  our  museum?"  said  a  tall  officer,  who 
spoke  beautiful  English.  His  mother  was  an  English- 
woman. So  I  was  taken  into  another  room  and  shown 
various  relics  of  the  battlefield — pieces  of  shells,  rifles 
and  bullets. 

"Early  German  shells,"  said  the  officer  who  spoke 
English,  "were  like  this.  You  see  how  finely  they 
splintered.  The  later  ones  are  not  so  good;  the  ma- 
terial is  inferior,  and  here  is  an  aluminum  nose  which 
shows  how  scarce  copper  is  becoming  in  Germany  to- 
day." 

I  have  often  thought  of  that  visit  to  the  "chateau," 


THE  IRON  DIVISION  103 

of  the  beautiful  courtesy  of  those  Belgian  officers,  their 
hospitality,  their  eagerness  to  make  an  American 
woman  comfortable  and  at  home.  And  I  was  to  have 
still  further  proof  of  their  kindly  feeling,  for  when 
toward  daylight  I  came  back  from  the  trenches  they 
were  still  up,  the  lamps  were  still  burning  brightly, 
the  stove  was  red  hot  and  cheerful,  and  they  had  pro- 
vided food  for  us  against  the  chill  of  the  winter 
dawn.  Out  through  the  mud  and  into  the  machine 
again.  And  now  we  were  very  near  the  trenches.  The 
car  went  without  lights  and  slowly.  A  foot  off  the 
centre  of  the  road  would  have  made  an  end  to  the 
excursion. 

We  began  to  pass  men,  long  lines  of  them  standing 
in  the  drenching  rain  to  let  us  by.  They  crowded 
close  against  the  car  to  avoid  the  seas  of  mud.  Some- 
times they  grumbled  a  little,  but  mostly  they  were 
entirely  silent.  That  is  the  thing  that  impressed  me 
always  about  the  lines  of  soldiers  I  saw  going  to  and 
from  the  trenches — their  silence.  Even  their  feet 
made  no  noise.  They  loomed  up  like  black  shadows 
which  the  night  swallowed  immediately. 

The  car  stopped  again.  We  had  made  another  leg 
of  the  journey.  And  this  time  our  destination  was  a 
church.  We  were  close  behind  the  trenches  now  and 
our  movements  were  made  with  extreme  caution.  Cap- 
tain F piloted  me  through  the  mud. 

"We  will  go  quietly,"  he  said.  "Many  of  them  are 
doubtless  sleeping;  they  are  but  just  out  of  the 
trenches  and  very  tired." 

Now  and  then  one  encounters  in  this  war  a  picture 
that  cannot  be  painted.  Such  a  picture  is  that  little 

church  just  behind  the  Belgian  lines  at  L .  There 

are  no  pews,  of  course,  in  Continental  churches. 


104  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

The  chairs  had  been  piled  up  in  a  corner  near  the 
altar,  and  on  the  stone  floor  thus  left  vacant  had  been 
spread  quantities  of  straw.  Lying  on  the  straw  and 
covered  by  their  overcoats  were  perhaps  two  hundred 
Belgian  soldiers.  They  lay  huddled  close  together 
for  warmth;  the  mud  of  the  trenches  still  clung  to 
them.  The  air  was  heavy  with  the  odour  of  damp 
straw. 

The  high  vaulted  room  was  a  cave  of  darkness. 
The  only  lights  were  small  flat  candles  here  and  there, 
stuck  in  saucers  or  on  haversacks  just  above  the  straw. 
These  low  lights,  so  close  to  the  floor,  fell  on  the  weary 
faces  of  sleeping  men,  accentuating  the  shadows, 
bringing  pinched  nostrils  into  relief,  showing  lines  of 
utter  fatigue  and  exhaustion. 

But  the  picture  was  not  all  sombre.  Here  were  four 
men  playing  cards  under  an  image  of  Our  Lady, 
which  was  just  overhead.  They  were  muffled  against 
the  cold  and  speaking  in  whispers.  In  a  far  corner  a 
soldier  sat  alone,  cross-legged,  writing  by  the  light  of 
a  candle.  His  letter  rested  on  a  flat  loaf  of  bread, 
which  was  his  writing  table.  Another  soldier  had 
taken  a  loaf  of  bread  for  his  pillow  and  was  com- 
fortably asleep  on  it. 

Captain  F led  the  way  through  the  church. 

He  stepped  over  the  men  carefully.  When  they  roused 
and  looked  up  they  would  have  risen  to  salute,  but  he 
told  them  to  lie  still. 

It  was  clear  that  the  relationship  between  the  Bel- 
gian officers  and  their  troops  was  most  friendly.  Not 
only  in  that  little  church  at  midnight,  but  again  and 
again  I  have  seen  the  same  thing.  The  officers  call 
their  men  their  "little  soldiers,"  and  eye  them  with 
affection. 


THE  IRON  DIVISION  105 

One  boy  insisted  on  rising  and  saluting.  He  was 
very  young,  and  on  his  chin  was  the  straggly  beard 
of  his  years.  The  Captain  stooped,  and  lifting  a 
candle  held  it  to  his  face. 

"The  handsomest  beard  in  the  Belgian  Army!"  he 
said,  and  the  men  round  chuckled. 

And  so  it  went,  a  word  here,  a  nod  there,  an  apology 
when  we  disturbed  one  of  the  sleepers. 

"They  are  but  boys,"  said  the  Captain,  and  sighed. 
For  each  day  there  were  fewer  of  them  who  returned 
to  the  little  church  to  sleep. 

On  the  way  back  to  the  car,  making  our  way  by 
means  of  the  Captain's  electric  flash  through  the 
crowded  graveyard,  he  turned  to  me. 

"When  you  write  of  this,  madame,"  he  said,  "you 
will  please  not  mention  the  location  of  this  church. 
So  far  it  has  escaped — perhaps  because  it  is  small. 
But  the  churches  always  suffer." 

I  regretted  this.  So  many  of  the  churches  are  old 
and  have  the  interest  of  extreme  age,  even  when  they 
are  architecturally  insignificant.  But  I  found  these 
officers  very  fair,  just  as  I  had  found  the  King  of  the 
Belgians  disinclined  to  condemn  the  entire  German 
Army  for  the  brutalities  of  a  part  of  it. 

"There  is  no  reason  why  churches  should  not  be 
/destroyed  if  they  are  serving  military  purposes,"  one 
of  them  said.  "When  a  church  tower  shelters  a  gun, 
or  is  used  for  observations,  it  is  quite  legitimate  that 
it  be  subject  to  artillery  fire.  That  is  a  necessity  of 
war." 

We  moved  cautiously.  Behind  the  church  was  a 
tiny  cluster  of  small  houses.  The  rain  had  ceased,  but 
the  electric  flashlight  showed  great  pools  of  water, 
through  which  we  were  obliged  to  walk.  The  hamlet 


106  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

was  very  silent — not  a  dog  barked.  There  were  no 
dogs. 

I  do  not  recall  seeing  any  dogs  at  any  time  along 
the  front,  except  at  La  Panne.  What  has  become  of 
them?  There  were  cats  in  the  destroyed  towns,  cats 
even  in  the  trenches.  But  there  were  no  dogs.  It  is 
not  because  the  people  are  not  fond  of  dogs.  Dunkirk 
was  full  of  them  when  I  was  there.  The  public  square 
resounded  with  their  quarrels  and  noisy  playing. 
They  lay  there  in  the  sun  and  slept,  and  ambulances 
turned  aside  in  their  headlong  career  to  avoid  running 
them  down.  But  the  villages  along  the  front  were 
silent. 

I  once  asked  an  officer  what  had  become  of  the  dogs. 

"The  soldiers  eat  them !"  he  said  soberly. 

I  heard  the  real  explanation  later.  The  strongest 
dogs  had  been  commandeered  for  the  army,  and 
these  brave  dogs  of  Flanders,  who  have  always  la- 
boured, are  now  drawing  mitrailleuses,  as  I  saw  them 

at  L .  The  little  dogs  must  be  fed,  and  there  is 

no  food  to  spare.  And  so  the  children,  over  whose 
heads  passes  unheeded  the  real  significance  of  this 
drama  that  is  playing  about  them,  have  their  own  small 
tragedies  these  days. 

We  got  into  the  car  again  and  it  moved  off.  With 
every  revolution  of  the  engine  we  were  advancing 
toward  that  sinister  line  that  borders  No  Man's  Land. 
We  were  very  close.  The  road  paralleled  the  trenches, 
and  shelling  had  begun  again. 

It  was  not  close,  and  no  shells  dropped  in  our  vicin- 
ity. But  the  low,  horizontal  red  streaks  of  the  Ger- 
man guns  were  plainly  visible. 

With  the  cessation  of  the  rain  had  begun  again  the 
throwing  over  the  Belgian  trenches  of  the  German 


THE  IRON  DIVISION  107 

magnesium  flares,  which  the  British  call  starlights. 
The  French  call  them  fusees.  Under  any  name  I  do 
not  like  them.  One  moment  one  is  advancing  in  a 
comfortable  obscurity.  The  next  instant  it  is  the 
Fourth  of  July,  with  a  white  rocket  bursting  over- 
head. There  is  no  noise,  however.  The  thing  is 
miraculously  beautiful,  silent  and  horrible.  I  believe 
the  light  floats  on  a  sort  of  tiny  parachute.  For  per- 
haps sixty  seconds  it  hangs  low  in  the  air,  throwing 
all  the  flat  landscape  into  clear  relief. 

I  do  not  know  if  one  may  read  print  under  these 
fusees.  I  never  had  either  the  courage  or  the  print 
for  the  experiment.  But  these  eyes  of  the  night  open 
and  close  silently  all  through  the  hours  of  darkness. 
They  hang  over  the  trenches,  reveal  the  movements 
of  troops  on  the  roads  behind,  shine  on  ammunition 
trains  and  ambulances,  on  the  righteous  and  the  un- 
righteous. All  along  the  German  lines  these  fusees 
go  up  steadily.  I  have  seen  a  dozen  in  the  air  at 
once.  Their  silence  and  the  eternal  vigilance  which 
they  reveal  are  most  impressive.  On  the  quietest 
night,  with  only  an  occasional  shot  being  fired,  the 
horizon  is  ringed  with  them. 

And  on  the  horizon  they  are  beautiful.  Overhead 
they  are  distinctly  unpleasant. 

"They  are  very  uncomfortable,"  I  said  to  Captain 

F .  "The  Germans  can  see  us  plainly,  can't 

they?" 

"But  that  is  what  they  are  for,"  he  explained.  "All 
movements  of  troops  and  ammunition  trains  to  and 
from  the  trenches  are  made  during  the  night,  so  they 
watch  us  very  carefully." 

"How  near  are  we  to  the  trenches?"  I  asked. 

"Very  near,  indeed." 


io8  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

"To  the  first  line?" 

For  I  had  heard  that  there  were  other  lines  behind, 
and  with  the  cessation  of  the  rain  my  courage  was 
rising.  Nothing  less  than  the  first  line  was  to  satisfy 
me. 

"To  the  first  line,"  he  said,  and  smiled. 

The  wind  which  had  driven  the  rain  in  sheets 
against  the  car  had  blown  the  storm  away.  The  moon 
came  out,  a  full  moon.  From  the  car  I  could  see  here 
and  there  the  gleam  of  the  inundation.  The  road  was 
increasingly  bad,  with  shell  holes  everywhere.  Build- 
ings loomed  out  of  the  night,  roofless  and  destroyed. 
The  fusees  rose  and  burst  silently  overhead ;  the  entire 
horizon  seemed  encircled  with  them.  We  were  so 
close  to  the  German  lines  that  we  could  see  an  electric 
signal  sending  its  message  of  long  and  short  flashes, 
could  even  see  the  reply.  It  seemed  to  me  most  un- 
military. 

"Any  one  who  knew  telegraphy  and  German  could 
read  that  message,"  I  protested. 

"It  is  not  so  simple  as  that  It  is  a  cipher  code, 
and  is  probably  changed  daily." 

Nevertheless,  the  officers  in  the  car  watched  the 
signalling  closely,  and  turning,  surveyed  the  country 
behind  us.  In  so  flat  a  region,  with  trees  and  shrub- 
bery cut  down  and  houses  razed,  even  a  pocket  flash 
can  send  a  signal  to  the  lines  of  the  enemy.  And  such 
signals  are  sent.  The  German  spy  system  is  thorough 
and  far-reaching. 

I  have  gone  through  Flanders  near  the  lines  at 
various  times  at  night.  It  is  a  dead  country  appar- 
ently. There  are  destroyed  houses,  sodden  fields, 
ditches  lipful  of  water.  But  in  the  most  amazing 
fashion  lights  spring  up  and  disappear.  Follow  one 


THE  IRON  DIVISION  109 

of  these  lights  and  you  find  nothing  but  a  deserted 
farm,  or  a  ruined  barn,  or  perhaps  nothing  but  a  field 
of  sugar  beets  dying  in  the  ground. 

Who  are  these  spies?  Are  they  Belgians  and 
French,  driven  by  the  ruin  of  everything  they  possess 
to  selling  out  to  the  enemy?  I  think  not.  It  is  much 
more  probable  that  they  are  Germans  who  slip  through 
the  lines  in  some  uncanny  fashion,  wading  and  swim- 
ming across  the  inundation,  crawling  flat  where  neces- 
sary, and  working,  an  inch  at  a  time,  toward  the 
openings  between  the  trenches.  Frightful  work,  of 
course.  Impossible  work,  too,  if  the  popular  idea  of 
the  trenches  were  correct — that  is,  that  they  form 
one  long,  communicating  ditch  from  the  North  Sea 
to  Switzerland!  They  do  not,  of  course.  There  are 
blank  spaces  here  and  there,  fully  controlled  by  the 
trenches  on  either  side,  and  reenforced  by  further 
trenches  behind.  But  with  a  knowledge  of  where 
these  openings  lie  it  is  possible  to  work  through. 

Possible,  not  easy.  And  there  is  no  mercy  for  a 
captured  spy. 

The  troops  who  had  been  relieved  were  moving  out 
of  the  trenches.  Our  progress  became  extremely 
slow.  The  road  was  lined  with  men.  They  pressed 
their  faces  close  to  the  glass  of  the  car  and  laughed 
and  talked  a  little  among  themselves.  Some  of  them 
were  bandaged.  Their  white  bandages  gleamed  in 
the  moonlight.  Here  and  there,  as  they  passed,  one 
blew  on  his  fingers,  for  the  wind  was  bitterly  cold. 

"In  a  few  moments  we  must  get  out  and  walk,"  I 
was  told.  "Is  madame  a  good  walker?" 

I  said  I  was  a  good  walker.  I  had  a  strong  feeling 
that  two  or  three  people  might  walk  along  that  road 
tinder  those  starlights  much  more  safely  and  incon- 


no  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

spicuously  than  an  automobile  could  move.  For  auto- 
mobiles at  the  front  mean  generals  as  a  rule,  and  are 
always  subject  to  attack. 

Suddenly  the  car  stopped  and  a  voice  called  to  us 
sharply.  There  were  soldiers  coming  up  a  side  road. 
I  was  convinced  that  we  had  surprised  an  attack,  and 
were  in  the  midst  of  the  German  advance.  One  of 
the  officers  flung  the  door  open  and  looked  out. 

But  we  were  only  on  the  wrong  road,  and  must  get 
into  reverse  and  turn  the  machine  even  closer  to  the 
front.  I  know  now  that  there  was  no  chance  of  a 
German  attack  at  that  point,  that  my  fears  were 
absurd.  Nevertheless,  so  keen  was  the  tension  that 
for  quite  ten  minutes  my  heart  raced  madly. 

On  again.  The  officers  in  the  car  consulted  the 
map  and,  having  decided  on  the  route,  fell  into  con^ 
versation.  The  officer  of  the  Third  Division,  whose 
mother  had  been  English,  had  joined  the  party.  He 
had  been  on  the  staff  of  General  Leman  at  the  time 
of  the  capture  of  Liege,  and  he  told  me  of  the  sensa- 
tional attempt  made  by  the  Germans  to  capture  the 
General. 

"I  was  upstairs  with  him  at  headquarters,"  he  said, 
"when  word  came  up  that  eight  Englishmen  had  just 
entered  the  building  with  a  request  to  see  him.  I  was 
suspicious  and  we  started  down  the  staircase  together. 
The  'Englishmen'  were  in  the  hallway  below.  As  we 
appeared  on  the  stairs  the  man  in  advance  put  his 
hand  in  his  pocket  and  drew  a  revolver.  They  were 
dressed  in  civilians'  clothes,  but  I  saw  at  once  that 
they  were  German. 

"I  was  fortunate  in  getting  my  revolver  out  first, 
and  shot  down  the  man  in  advance.  There  was  a 
struggle,  in  which  the  General  made  his  escape  and  all 


THE  IRON  DIVISION  ill 

of  the  eight  were  either  killed  or  taken  prisoners. 
They  were  uhlans,  two  officers  and  six  privates.'* 

"It  was  very  brave/*  I  said.  "A  remarkable  ex- 
ploit." 

"Very  brave  indeed,"  he  agreed  with  me.  "They 
are  all  very  brave,  the  Germans." 

Captain  F had  been  again  consulting  his  map. 

Now  he  put  it  away. 

"Brave  but  brutal,"  he  said  briefly.  "I  am  of  the 
Third  Division.  I  have  watched  the  German  advance 
protected  by  women  and  children.  In  the  fighting  the 
civilians  fell  first.  They  had  no  weapons.  It  was 
terrible.  It  is  the  German  system,"  he  went  on,  "which 
makes  everything  of  the  end,  and  nothing  at  all  of  the 
means.  It  is  seen  in  the  way  they  have  sacrificed  their 
own  troops." 

"They  think  you  are  equally  brutal,"  I  said.  "The 
German  soldiers  believe  that  they  will  have  their  eyes 
torn  out  if  they  are  captured." 

I  cited  a  case  I  knew  of,  where  a  wounded  German 
had  hidden  in  the  inundation  for  five  days  rather  than 
surrender  to  the  horrors  he  thought  were  waiting  for 
him.  When  he  was  found  and  taken  to  a  hospital  his 
long  days  in  the  water  had  brought  on  gangrene  and 
he  could  not  be  saved. 

"They  have  been  told  that  to  make  them  fight  more 
savagely,"  was  the  comment.  "What  about  the  official 
German  order  for  a  campaign  of  'frightfulness'  in 
Belgium?" 

;  And  here,  even  while  the  car  is  crawling  along  to- 
ward the  trenches,  perhaps  it  is  allowable  to  explain 
the  word  "frightfulness,"  which  now  so  permeates  the 
literature  of  the  war.  Following  the  scenes  of  the 
German  invasion  into  Belgium,  where  here  and  there 


112  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

some  maddened  civilian  fired  on  the  German  troops 
and  precipitated  the  deaths  of  his  townsmen,*  Berlin 
issued,  on  August  twenty-seventh,  a  declaration,  of 
which  this  paragraph  is  a  part : 

"The  only  means  of  preventing  surprise  attacks 

v  from  the  civil  population  has  been  to  interfere  with 

unrelenting  severity  and  to  create  examples  which,  by 

their  frightfulness,  would  be  a  warning  to  the  whole 

country." 

A  Belgian  officer  once  quoted  it  to  me,  with  a  com- 
ment. 

"This  is  not  an  order  to  the  army.  It  is  an  attempt 
at  justification  for  the  very  acts  which  Berlin  is  now 
attempting  to  deny!" 

That  is  how  "frightfulness"  came  into  the  literature 
of  the  war. 

Captain  F stopped  the  car.  Near  the  road  was 

a  ruin  of  an  old  church. 

"In  that  church,"  he  said,  "our  soldiers  were  sleep- 
ing when  the  Germans,  evidently  informed  by  a  spy, 
began  to  shell  it.  The  first  shot  smashed  that  house 
there,  twenty-five  yards  away;  the  second  shot  came 
through  the  roof  and  struck  one  of  the  supporting 
pillars,  bringing  the  roof  down.  Forty-six  men  were 
killed  and  one  hundred  and  nine  wounded." 

He  showed  me  the  grave  from  a  window  of  the 
car,  a  great  grave  in  front  of  the  church,  with  a  wood- 
en cross  on  it.  It  was  too  dark  to  read  the  inscription, 
but  he  told  me  what  it  said : 

"Here  lie  forty-six  chasseurs.''  Beneath  are  the 
names,  one  below  the  other  in  two  columns,  and  under- 
neath all :  "Morts  pour  la  Patrie" 

*The  Belgians  contend  that,  in  almost  every  case,  such  firing 
by  civilians  was  the  result  of  attack  on  their  women. 


THE  IRON  DIVISION  113 

We  continued  to  advance.  Our  lamps  were  out,  but 
the  fusees  made  progress  easy.  And  there  was  the 
moon.  We  had  left  behind  us  the  lines  of  the  silent 
men.  The  scene  was  empty,  desolate.  Suddenly  we 
stopped  by  a  low  brick  house,  a  one-story  building  with 
overhanging  eaves.  Sentries  with  carbines  stood  under  v' 
the  eaves,  flattened  against  the  wall  for  shelter  from 
the  biting  wind. 


CHAPTER  XI 
AT  THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  BARRIER 


A  NARROW  path  led  up  to  the  house.  It  was 
flanked  on  both  sides  by  barbed  wire,  and 
progress  through  it  was  slow.  The  wind  caught  my 
rain  cape  and  tore  it  against  the  barbs.  I  had  to  be 
disentangled.  The  sentries  saluted,  and  the  low  door, 
through  which  the  officers  were  obliged  to  stoop  to 
enter,  was  opened  by  an  orderly  from  within. 

We  entered  The  House  of  the  Mill  of  Saint . 

The  House  of  the  Mill  of  Saint was  less  pre- 
tentious than  its  name.  Even  at  its  best  it  could  not 
have  been  imposing.  Now,  partially  destroyed  and 
with  its  windows  carefully  screened  inside  by  grain 
sacks  nailed  to  the  frames  for  fear  of  a  betraying  ray 
of  light,  it  was  not  beautiful.  But  it  was  hospitable. 
A  hanging  lamp  in  its  one  livable  room,  a  great  iron 
stove,  red  and  comforting,  and  a  large  round  table 
under  the  lamp  made  it  habitable  and  inviting.  It 
was  Belgian  artillery  headquarters,  and  I  was  to  meet 
here  Colonel  Jacques,  one  of  the  military  idols  of  Bel- 
gium, the  hero  of  the  Congo,  and  now  in  charge  of 
Belgian  batteries.  In  addition,  since  it  was  midnight, 
we  were  to  sup  here. 

We  were  expected,  and  Colonel  Jacques  himself 
waited  inside  the  living-room  door.  A  tall  man,  as 
are  almost  all  the  Belgian  officers — which  is  curious, 

114 


AT  THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  BARRIER         115 

considering  that  the  troops  seem  to  be  rather  under 
average  size — he  greeted  us  cordially.  I  fancied  that 
behind  his  urbanity  there  was  the  glimmer  of  an 
amused  smile.  But  his  courtesy  was  beautiful.  He 
put  me  near  the  fire  and  took  the  next  chair  himself. 

I  had  a  good  chance  to  observe  him.  He  is  no 
longer  a  young  man,  and  beyond  a  certain  military 
erectness  and  precision  in  his  movements  there  is  noth- 
ing to  mark  him  the  great  soldier  he  has  shown  him- 
self to  be. 

"We  are  to  have  supper,"  he  said  smilingly  in 
French.  "Provided  you  have  brought  something  to 
eat  with  you!" 

"We  have  brought  it,"  said  Captain  F . 

The  officers  of  the  staff  came  in  and  were  formally 
presented.  There  was  much  clicking  of  heels,  much 
deep  and  courteous  bowing.  Then  Captain  F <  pro- 
duced his  box  of  biscuits,  and  from  a  capacious  pocket 
of  his  army  overcoat  a  tin  of  bully  beef.  The  House 

of  the  Mill  of  Saint contributed  a  bottle  of  thin 

white  native  wine  and,  triumphantly,  a  glass.  There 
are  not  many  glasses  along  the  front. 

There  was  cheese  too.  And  at  the  end  of  the  meal 
Colonel  Jacques,  with  great  empressement,  laid  before 
me  a  cake  of  sweet  chocolate. 

I  had  to  be  shown  the  way  to  use  the  bully  beef. 
One  pf  the  hard  flat  biscuits  was  split  open,  spread 
with  butter  and  then  with  the  beef  in  a  deep  layer.  It 
was  quite  good,  but  what  with  excitement  and  fatigue 
I  was  not  hungry.  Everybody  ate ;  everybody  talked ; 
and,  after  asking  my  permission,  everybody  smoked.  I 
sat  near  the  stove  and  dried  my  steaming  boots. 

Afterward  I  remembered  that  with  all  the  conver- 
sation there  was  very  little  noise.  Our  voices  were 


ii6  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

subdued.  Probably  we  might  have  cheered  in  that 
closed  and  barricaded  house  without  danger.  But  the 
sense  of  the  nearness  of  the  enemy  was  over  us  all, 
and  the  business  of  war  was  not  forgotten.  There 
were  men  who  came,  took  orders  and  went  away. 
There  were  maps  on  the  walls  and  weapons  in  every 
corner.  Even  the  sacking  that  covered  the  windows 
bespoke  caution  and  danger. 

Here  it  was  too  near  the  front  for  the  usual  peasant 
family  huddled  round  its  stove  in  the  kitchen,  and 
looking  with  resignation  on  these  strange  occupants  of 
their  house.  The  humble  farm  buildings  outside  were 
destroyed. 

I  looked  round  the  room ;  a  picture  or  two  still  hung 
on  the  walls,  and  a  crucifix.  There  is  always  a  crucifix 
in  these  houses.  There  was  a  carbine  just  beneath  this 
one. 

Inside  of  one  of  the  picture  frames  one  of  the  Colo- 
nel's medals  had  been  placed,  as  if  for  safety. 

Colonel  Jacques  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table  and 
beamed  at  us  all.  He  has  behind  him  many  years  of 
military  service.  He  has  been  decorated  again  and 
again  for  bravery.  But,  perhaps,  when  this  war  is 
over  and  he  has  time  to  look  back  he  will  smile  over 
that  night  supper  with  the  first  woman  he  had  seen  for 
.  months,  under  the  rumble  of  his  own  and  the  German 
batteries.  « 

It  was  time  to  go  to  the  advance  trenches.  But  be- 
fore we  left  one  of  the  officers  who  had  accompanied 
me  rose  and  took  a  folded  paper  from  a  pocket  of  his 
tunic.  He  was  smiling. 

"I  shall  read,"  he  said,  "a  little  tribute  from  one  of 
Colonel  Jacques*  soldiers  to  him." 

So  we  listened.     Colonel  Jacques  sat  and  smiled  j 


AT  THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  BARRIER         117 

but  he  is  a  modest  man,  and  his  fingers  were  beating  a 
nervous  tattoo  on  the  table.  The  young  officer  stood 
and  read,  glancing  up  now  and  then  to  smile  at  his 
chief's  embarrassment.  The  wind  howled  outside, 
setting  the  sacks  at  the  windows  to  vibrating. 
This  is  a  part  of  the  poem  : 


"Comme  chef  nous  avons  I'homme  a  la  hauteur 
Un  homme  aim&  et  adore  de  tous 
L'Colonel  Jacques;  de  lui  les  homines  sont  fous 
En  lui  nous  voyons  I'embleme  de  I'honneur. 
Des  campagnes  il  en  a  des  tas:  En  Afrique 
Haecht  et  Dixmude,  Ramsdonck  et  Sart-Tilmau 
Et  toujours  premier  et  toujours  en  avant 
Toujours  en  tef  de  son  beau  regiment, 

Toujours  railleur 

Chef  au  grand  cceur. 

REFRAIN 

"L'Colo  du  isme  passe 
Regardez  ce  vaillant 
Quand  il  crie  dans  I'espace 
Joyeus'ment  'En  avant!' 
*  Ses  hommes,  la  mine  heureuse 

Gaiment  suivent  sa  trace 
Sur  la  route  glorieuse. 
Saluez-le,  I'Colo  du  I2me  passe. 

"AD.  DAUVISTER, 

"SOUS-LIEUTENANT." 

We  applauded.     It  is  curious  to  remember  how 
cheerful  we  were,  how  warm  and  comfortable,  there 


ii8  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

at  the  House  of  the  Mill  of  Saint ,  with  war  only 

a  step  away  now.  Curious,  until  we  think  that,  of 
all  the  created  world,  man  is  the  most  adaptable.  Men 
and  horses !  Which  is  as  it  should  be  now,  with  both 
men  and  horses  finding  themselves  in  strange  places, 
indeed,  and  somehow  making  the  best  of  it. 

The  copy  of  the  poem,  which  had  been  printed  at 
the  front,  probably  on  an  American  hand  press,  was 
given  to  me  with  Colonel  Jacques'  signature  on  the 
back,  and  we  prepared  to  go.  There  was  much  don- 
ning of  heavy  wraps,  much  bowing  and  handshaking. 
Colonel  Jacques  saw  us  out  into  the  wind-swept  night 
Then  the  door  of  the  little  house  closed  again,  and  we 
were  on  our  way  through  the  barricade. 

Until  now  our  excursion  to  the  trenches,  aside  from 
the  discomfort  of  the  weather  and  the  mud,  had  been 
fairly  safe,  although  there  was  always  the  chance  of  a) 
shell.  To  that  now  was  to  be  added  a  fresh  hazard — 
the  sniping  that  goes  on  all  night  long. 

Our  car  moved  quietly  for  a  mile,  paralleling  the 
trenches.  Then  it  stopped.  The  rest  of  the  journey 
was  to  be  on  foot. 

All  traces  of  the  storm  had  passed,  except  for  the 
pools  of  mud,  which,  gleaming  like  small  lakes,  filled 
shell  holes  in  the  road.  An  ammunition  lorry  had 
drawn  up  in  the  shadow  of  a  hedge  and  was  cau- 
tiously unloading.  Evidently  the  night's  movement  of 
troops  was  over,  for  the  roads  were  empty. 

A  few  feet  beyond  the  lorry  we  came  up  to  the 
trenches.  We  were  behind  them,  only  head  and  shoul- 
ders above. 

There  was  no  sign  of  life  or  movement,  except  for 
the  silent  fusees  that  burst  occasionally  a  little  to  our 
right.  Walking  was  bad.  The  Belgian  blocks  of  the 


AT  THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  BARRIER         119 

road  were  coated  with  slippery  mud,  and  from  long 
use  and  erosion  the  stones  themselves  were  rounded, 
so  that  our  feet  slipped  over  them.  At  the  right  was 
a  shallow  ditch  three  or  four  feet  wide.  Immediately 
beyond  that  was  the  railway  embankment  where,  as 

Captain  F had  explained,  the  Belgian  Army  had 

taken  up  its  position  after  being  driven  back  across 
the  Yser. 

The  embankment  loomed  shoulder  high,  and  between 
it  and  the  ditch  were  the  trenches.  There  was  no  sound 
from  them,  but  sentries  halted  us  frequently.  On  such 
occasions  the  party  stopped  abruptly — for  here  sentries 
are  apt  to  fire  first  and  investigate  afterward — and  one 
officer  advanced  with  the  password. 

There  is  always  something  grim  and  menacing  about 
the  attitude  of  the  sentry  as  he  waits  on  such  occasions. 
His  carbine  is  not  over  his  shoulder,  but  in  his  hands, 
ready  for  use.  The  bayonet  gleams.  His  eyes  are 
fixed  watchfully  on  the  advance.  A  false  move,  and 
his  overstrained  nerves  may  send  the  carbine  to  his 
shoulder. 

We  walked  just  behind  the  trenches  in  the  moon- 
light for  a  mile.  No  one  said  anything.  The  wind 
was  icy.  Across  the  railroad  embankment  it  chopped 
the  inundation  into  small  crested  waves.  Only  by 
putting  one's  head  down  was  it  possible  to  battle  ahead. 
From  Dixmude  came  the  intermittent  red  flashes  of 
guns.  But  the  trenches  beside  us  were  entirely  silent. 

At  the  end  of  a  mile  we  stopped.  The  road  turned 
abruptly  to  the  right  and  crossed  the  railroad  embank- 
ment, and  at  this  crossing  was  the  ruin  of  what  had 
been  the  House  of  the  Barrier,  where  in  peaceful  times 
the  crossing  tender  lived. 

It  had  been  almost  destroyed.    The  side  toward  the 


120  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

German  lines  was  indeed  a  ruin,  but  one  room  was 
fairly  whole.  However,  the  door  had  been  shot  away. 
To  enter,  it  was  necessary  to  lift  away  an  extemporised 
one  of  planks  roughly  nailed  together,  which  leaned 
against  the  aperture. 

The  moving  of  the  door  showed  more  firelight,  and 
a  very  small,  shaded  and  smoky  lamp  on  a  stand. 
There  were  officers  here  again.  The  little  house  is 
slightly  in  front  of  the  advanced  trenches,  and  once 
inside  it  was  possible  to  realise  its  exposed  position. 
Standing  as  it  does  on  the  elevation  of  the  railroad,  it  is 
constantly  under  fire.  It  is  surrounded  by  barbed  wire 
and  flanked  by  trenches  in  which  are  mitrailleuses. 

The  walls  were  full  of  shell  holes,  stuffed  with  sacks 
of  straw  or  boarded  over.  What  had  been  windows 
were  now  jagged  openings,  similarly  closed.  The  wind 
came  through  steadily,  smoking  the  chimney  of  the 
lamp  and  making  the  flame  flicker. 

There  was  one  chair. 

I  wish  I  could  go  farther.  I  wish  I  could  say  that 
shells  were  bursting  overhead,  and  that  I  sat  calmly 
in  the  one  chair  and  made  notes.  I  sat,  true  enough, 
but  I  sat  because  I  was  tired  and  my  feet  were  wet. 
And  instead  of  making  notes  I  examined  my  new  six- 
guinea  silk  rubber  rain  cape  for  barbed-wire  tears.  Not 
a  shell  came  near.  The  German  battery  across  had 
ceased  firing  at  dusk  that  evening,  and  was  playing 
pinochle  four  hundred  yards  away  across  the  inunda- 
tion. The  snipers  were  writing  letters  home. 

It  is  true  that  any  time  an  artilleryman  might  lose 
a  game  and  go  out  and  fire  a  gun  to  vent  his  spleen 
or  to  keep  his  hand  in.  And  the  snipers  might  begin 
to  notice  that  the  rain  was  over,  and  that  there  was 
suspicious  activity  at  the  House  of  the  Barrier.  And, 


AT  THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  BARRIER         121 

to  take  away  the  impression  of  perfect  peace,  big  guns 
were  busy  just  north  and  south  of  us.  Also,  just 
where  we  were  the  Germans  had  made  a  terrific  charge 
three  nights  before  to  capture  an  outpost.  But  the  fact 
remains  that  I  brought  away  not  even  a  bullet  hole 
through  the  crown  of  my  soft  felt  hat. 


CHAPTER  XII 
NIGHT  IN  THE  TRENCHES 


WHEN  I  had  been  thawed  out  they  took  me  into 
the  trenches.  Because  of  the  inundation  di- 
rectly in  front,  they  are  rather  shallow,  and  at  this 
point  were  built  against  the  railroad  embankment  with 
earth,  boards,  and  here  and  there  a  steel  rail  from  the 
track.  Some  of  them  were  covered,  too,  but  not  with 
bombproof  material.  The  tops  were  merely  shelters 
from  the  rain  and  biting  wind. 

The  men  lay  or  sat  in  them — it  was  impossible  to 
stand.  Some  of  them  were  like  tiny  houses  into  which 
the  men  crawled  from  the  rear,  and  by  placing  a  board, 
which  served  as  a  door,  managed  to  keep  out  at  least 
a  part  of  the  bitter  wind. 

In  the  first  trench  I  was  presented  to  a  bearded 
major.  He  was  lying  flat  and  apologised  for  not  be- 
ing able  to  rise.  There  was  a  machine  gun  beside  him. 
He  told  me  with  some  pride  that  it  was  an  American 
gun,  and  that  it  never  jammed.  When  a  machine 
gun  jams  the  man  in  charge  of  it  dies  and  his  com- 
rades die,  and  things  happen  with  great  rapidity.  On 
the  other  side  of  him  was  a  cat,  curled  up  and  sound 
asleep.  There  was  a  telephone  instrument  there.  It 
was  necessary  to  step  over  the  wire  that  was  stretched 
along  the  ground. 

All  night  long  he  lies  there  with  his  gun,  watching 

122 


NIGHT  IN  THE  TRENCHES  123 

for  the  first  movement  in  the  trenches  across.  For 
here,  at  the  House  of  the  Barrier,  has  taken  place  some 
of  the  most  furious  fighting  of  this  part  of  the  line. 

In  the  next  division  of  the  trench  were  three  men. 
They  were  cleaning  and  oiling  their  rifles  round  a 
,  candle. 

The  surprise  of  all  of  these  men  at  seeing  a  woman 
was  almost  absurd.  Word  went  down  the  trenches 
.that  a  woman  was  visiting.  Heads  popped  out  and 
cautious  comments  were  made.  It  was  concluded  that 
I  was  visiting  royalty,  but  the  excitement  died  when 
it  was  discovered  that  I  was  not  the  Queen.  Now  and 
then,  when  a  trench  looked  clean  and  dry,  I  was  in- 
vited in.  It  was  necessary  to  get  down  and  crawl  in 
on  hands  and  knees. 

Here  was  a  man  warming  his  hands  over  a  tiny 
fire  kindled  in  a  tin  pail.  He  had  bored  holes  in 
the  bottom  of  the  pail  for  air,  and  was  shielding  the 
glow  carefully  with  his  overcoat. 

Many  people  have  written  about  the  trenches — the 
mud,  the  odours,  the  inhumanity  of  compelling  men  to 
live  under  such  foul  conditions.  Nothing  that  they 
have  said  can  be  too  strong.  Under  the  best  condi- 
tions the  life  is  ghastly,  horrible,  impossible. 

That  night,  when  from  a  semi-shielded  position  I 
could  look  across  to  the  German  line,  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  condition  of  the  men  in  the  trenches  and  the 
beauty  of  the  scenery  was  appalling.  In  each  direction, 
as  far  as  one  could  see,  lay  a  gleaming  lagoon  of 
water.  The  moon  made  a  silver  path  across  it,  and 
here  and  there  on  its  borders  were  broken  and  twisted 
winter  trees. 

"It  is  beautiful,"  said  Captain  F ,  beside  me, 

in  a  low  voice.  "But  it  is  full  of  the  dead.  They  are. 


124  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

taken  out  whenever  it  is  possible;  but  it  is  not  often 
possible." 

"And  when  there  is  an  attack  the  attacking  side 
must  go  through  the  water?" 

"Not  always,  but  in  many  places." 

"What  will  happen  if  it  freezes  over?" 

He  explained  that  it  was  salt  water,  and  would  not 
freeze  easily.  And  the  cold  of  that  part  of  the  country- 
is  not  the  cold  of  America  in  the  same  latitude.  It  is 
not  a  cold  of  low  temperature ;  it  is  a  damp,  penetrating 
cold  that  goes  through  garments  of  every  weight  and 
seems  to  chill  the  very  blood  in  a  man's  body. 

"How  deep  is  the  water  ?"  I  asked. 

"It  varies — from  two  to  eight  feet.  Here  it  is 
shallow." 

"I  should  think  they  would  come  over." 

"The  water  is  full  of  barbed  wire,"  he  said  grimly. 
"And  some,  a  great  many,  have  tried — and  failed." 

As  of  the  trenches,  many  have  written  of  the  stenches 
of  this  war.  But  the  odour  of  that  beautiful  lagoon 
was  horrible.  I  do  not  care  to  emphasize  it.  It  is 
one  of  the  things  best  forgotten.  But  any  lingering 
belief  I  may  have  had  in  the  grandeur  and  glory  of 
war  died  that  night  beside  that  silver  lake — died  of  an 
odour,  and  will  never  live  again. 

And  now  came  a  discussion. 

The  road  crossing  the  railroad  embankment  turned 
sharply  to  the  left  and  proceeded  in  front  of  the 
trenches.  There  was  no  shelter  on  that  side  of  the 
embankment.  The  inundation  bordered  the  road,  and 
just  beyond  the  inundation  were  the  German  trenches. 

There  were  no  trees,  no  shrubbery,  no  houses ;  just  a 
flat  road,  paved  with  Belgian  blocks,  that  gleamed  in 
the  moonlight. 


NIGHT  IN  THE  TRENCHES  125 

At  last  the  decision  was  made.  We  would  go  along 
the  road,  provided  I  realised  from  the  first  that  it  was 
dangerous.  One  or  two  could  walk  there  with  a  good 
chance  for  safety,  but  not  more.  The  little  group  had 
been  augmented.  It  must  break  up;  two  might  walk 
together,  and  then  two  a  safe  distance  behind.  Four 
would  certainly  be  fired  on. 

I  wanted  to  go.  It  was  not  a  matter  of  courage. 
I  had  simply,  parrot-fashion,  mimicked  the  attitude 
of  mind  of  the  officers.  One  after  another  I 
had  seen  men  go  into  danger  with  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulders.  / 

"If  it  comes  it  comes!"  they  said,  and  went  on.  So 
I,  too,  had  become  a  fatalist.  If  I  was  to  be  shot  it 
would  happen,  if  I  had  to  buy  a  rifle  and  try  to  clean 
it  myself  to  fulfil  my  destiny. 

So  they  let  me  go.  I  went  farther  than  they 
expected,  as  it  turned  out.  There  was  a  great  deal  of 
indignation  and  relief  when  it  was  over.  But  that  is 
later  on. 

A  very  tall  Belgian  officer  took  me  in  charge.  If 
was  necessary  to  work  through  a  barbed-wire  barri- 
cade, twisting  and  turning  through  its  mazes.  The 
moonlight  helped.  It  was  at  once  a  comfort  and  an 
anxiety,  for  it  seemed  to  me  that  my  khaki-coloured 
suit  gleamed  in  it.  The  Belgian  officers  in  their  dark 
blue  were  less  conspicuous.  I  thought  they  had  an 
unfair  advantage  of  me,  and  that  it  was  idiotic  of  the 
British  to  wear  and  advocate  anything  so  absurd  as 
khaki.  My  cape  ballooned  like  a  sail  in  the  wind.  I 
felt  at  least  double  my  ordinary  size,  and  that  even  a 
sniper  with  a  squint  could  hardly  miss  me.  And,  by 
way  of  comfort,  I  had  one  last  instruction  before  t 
started : 


•126  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

"If  a  fusee  goes  up,  stand  perfectly  still.  If  you 
move  they  will  fire." 

The  entire  safety  of  the  excursion  depended  on  a 
sort  of  tacit  agreement  that,  in  part  at  least,  obtains 
as  to  sentries. 

This  is  a  new  warfare,  one  of  artillery,  supported 
by  infantry  in  trenches.  And  it  has  been  necessary  to 
make  new  laws  for  it.  One  of  the  most  curious  is  a 
sort  of  modus  vivendi  by  which  each  side  protects  its 
own  sentries  by  leaving  the  enemy's  sentries  unmo- 
lested so  long  as  there  is  no  active  fighting.  They  are 
always  in  plain  view  before  the  trenches.  In  case  of 
a  charge  they  are  the  first  to  be  shot,  of  course.  But 
long  nights  and  days  have  gone  by  along  certain  parts 
of  the  front  where  the  hostile  trenches  are  close  to- 
gether, and  the  sentries,  keeping  their  monotonous 
lookout,  have  been  undisturbed. 

No  doubt  by  this  time  the  situation  has  changed  to 
a  certain  extent;  there  has  been  more  active  fighting, 
larger  bodies  of  men  are  involved.  The  spring  floods 
south  of  the  inundation  will  have  dried  up.  No  Man's 
Land  will  have  ceased  to  be  a  swamp  and  the  deadlock 
may  be  broken. 

But  on  that  February  night  I  put  my  faith  in  this 
agreement,  and  it  held. 

The  tall  Belgian  officer  asked  me  if  I  was  frightened. 
I  said  I  was  not.  This  was  not  exactly  the  truth ;  but  it 
was  no  time  for  the  truth. 

"They  are  not  shooting,"  I  said.  "It  looks  perfectly 
safe." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  glanced  toward  the 
German  trenches. 

"They  have  been  sleeping  during  the  rain,"  he  said 
briefly.  "But  when  one  of  them  wakes  up,  look  out!"1 


NIGHT  IN  THE  TRENCHES  127 

After  that  there  was  little  conversation,  and  what 
there  was  was  in  whispers. 

As  we  proceeded  the  stench  from  the  beautiful 
moonlit  water  grew  overpowering.  The  officer  told 
me  the  reason. 

A  little  farther  along  a  path  of  fascines  had  been 
built  out  over  the  inundation  to  an  outpost  halfway  to 
the  German  trenches.  The  building  of  this  narrow 
roadway  had  cost  many  lives. 

Half  a  mile  along  the  road  we  were  sharply  chal- 
lenged by  a  sentry.  When  he  had  received  the  pass- 
word he  stood  back  and  let  us  pass.  Alone,  in  that 
bleak  and  exposed  position  in  front  of  the  trenches, 
always  in  full  view  as  he  paced  back  and  forward,  car- 
bine on  shoulder,  with  not  even  a  tree  trunk  or  a  hedge 
'for  shelter,  the  first  to  go  at  the  whim  of  some  German 
sniper  or  at  any  indication  of  an  attack,  he  was  a  pa- 
thetic, almost  a  tragic,  figure.  He  looked  very  young 
too.  I  stopped  and  asked  him  in  a  whisper  how  old 
he  was. 

He  said  he  was  nineteen! 

He  may  have  been.  I  know  something  about  boys, 
and  I  think  he  was  seventeen,  at  the  most.  There  are 
plenty  of  boys  of  that  age  doing  just  what  that  lad 
was  doing. 

Afterward  I  learned  that  it  was  no  part  of  the 
original  plan  to  take  a  woman  over  the  fascine  path 

to  the  outpost;  that  Captain  F ground  his  teeth 

in  impotent  rage  when  he  saw  where  I  was  being 
taken.  But  it  was  not  possible  to  call  or  even  to  come 
up  to  us.  So,  blithely  and  unconsciously  the  tall  Bel- 
gian officer  and  I  turned  to  the  right,  and  I  was  inno- 
cently on  my  way  to  the  German  trenches. 

After  a  little  I  realised  that  this  was  rather  more 


128  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

war  than  I  had  expected.  The  fascines  were  slippery; 
the  path  only  four  or  five  feet  wide.  On  each  side 
was  the  water,  hideous  with  many  secrets. 

I  stopped,  a  third  of  the  way  out,  and  looked  back. 
It  looked  about  as  dangerous  in  one  direction  as  an- 
other. So  we  went  on.  Once  I  slipped  and  fell.  And 
now,  looming  out  of  the  moonlight,  I  could  see  the 
outpost  which  was  the  object  of  our  visit. 

I  have  always  been  grateful  to  that  Belgian  lieuten- 
ant for  his  mistake.  Just  how  grateful  I  might  have 
been  had  anything  untoward  happened,  I  cannot  say. 
But  the  excursion  was  worth  all  the  risk,  and 
more. 

On  a  bit  of  high  ground  stands  what  was  once  the 
tiny  hamlet  of  Oudstuyvenskerke — the  ruins  of  two 
small  white  houses  and  the  tower  of  the  destroyed 
church — hardly  a  tower  any  more,  for  only  three  sides 
of  it  are  standing  and  they  are  riddled  with  great  shell 
holes. 

Six  hundred  feet  beyond  this  tower  were  the  Ger- 
man trenches.  The  little  island  was  hardly  a  hundred 
feet  in  its  greatest  dimension. 

I  wish  I  could  make  those  people  who  think  that  war 
is  good  for  a  country  see  that  Belgian  outpost  as  I 
saw  it  that  night  under  the  moonlight.  Perhaps  we' 
were  under  suspicion;  I  do  not  know.  Suddenly  the 
fusees,  which  had  ceased  for  a  time,  began  again,  and 
with  their  white  light  added  to  that  of  the  moon  the 
desolate  picture  of  that  tiny  island  was  a  picture  of 
the  war.  There  was  nothing  lacking.  There  was  the 
beauty  of  the  moonlit  waters,  there  was  the  tragedy 
of  the  destroyed  houses  and  the  church,  and  there  was 
the  horror  of  unburied  bodies. 

There  was  heroism,  too,  of  the  kind  that  will  make 


NIGHT  IN  THE  TRENCHES  129 

Belgium  live  in  history.  For  in  the  top  of  that  church 
tower  for  months  a  Capuchin  monk  has  held  his  posi- 
tion alone  and  unrelieved.  He  has  a  telephone,  and  he 
gains  access  to  his  position  in  the  tower  by  means  of 
a  rope  ladder  which  he  draws  up  after  him. 

Furious  fighting  has  taken  place  again  and  again 
round  the  base  of  the  tower.  The  German  shells  assail 
it  constantly.  But  when  I  left  Belgium  the  Capuchin 
monk,  who  has  become  a  soldier,  was  still  on  duty; 
still  telephoning  the  ranges  of  the  gun;  still  notifying 
headquarters  of  German  preparations  for  a  charge. 

Some  day  the  church  tower  will  fall  and  he  will  go 
with  it,  or  it  will  be  captured ;  one  or  the  other  is  in- 
evitable. Perhaps  it  has  already  happened;  for  not 
long  ago  I  saw  in  the  newspapers  that  furious  fighting 
was  taking  place  at  this  very  spot. 

He  came  down  and  I  talked  to  him — a  little  man, 
regarding  his  situation  as  quite  ordinary,  and  looking 
quaintly  unpriestlike  in  his  uniform  of  a  Belgian  officer 
with  its  tasselled  cap.  Some  day  a  great  story  will  be 
written  of  these  priests  of  Belgium  who  have  left 
their  churches  to  fight. 

We  spoke  in  whispers.  There  was  after  all  very 
little  to  say.  It  would  have  embarrassed  him  horribly 
had  any  one  told  him  that  he  was  a  heroic  figure.  And 
the  ordinary  small  talk  is  not  currency  in  such  a  situa- 
tion. 

We  shook  hands  and  I  think  I  wished  him  luck. 
Then  he  went  back  again  to  the  long  hours  and  days 
of  waiting. 

I  passed  under  his  telephone  wires.  Some  day  he 
.will  telephone  that  a  charge  is  coming.  He  will  give 
all  the  particulars  calmly,  concisely.  Then  the  message 
jvill  break  off  abruptly.  He  will  have  sent  his  last 


130  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

warning.  For  that  is  the  way  these  men  at  the  advance 
posts  die. 

As  we  started  again  I  was  no  longer  frightened. 
Something  of  his  courage  had  communicated  itself  to 
me,  his  courage  and  his  philosophy,  perhaps  his  faith. 

The  priest  had  become  a  soldier;  but  he  was  still 
a  priest  in  his  heart.  For  he  had  buried  the  German 
dead  in  one  great  grave  before  the  church,  and  over 
them  had  put  the  cross  of  his  belief. 

It  was  rather  absurd  on  the  way  back  over  the  path 
of  death  to  be  escorted  by  a  cat.  It  led  the  way  over 
the  fascines,  treading  daintily  and  cautiously.  Perhaps 
one  of  the  destroyed  houses  at  the  outpost  had  been 
its  home,  and  with  a  cat's  fondness  for  places  it  re- 
mained there,  though  everything  it  knew  had  gone; 
though  battle  and  sudden  death  had  usurped  the  place 
of  its  peaceful  fireside,  though  that  very  fireside  was 
become  a  heap  of  stone  and  plaster,  open  to  winds  and 
rain. 

Again  and  again  in  destroyed  towns  I  have  seen 
these  forlorn  cats  stalking  about,  trying  vainly  to  ad- 
just themselves  to  new  conditions,  cold  and  hungry 
and  homeless. 

We  were  challenged  repeatedly  on  the  way  back. 
Coming  from  the  direction  we  did  we  were  open  to 
suspicion.  It  was  necessary  each  time  to  halt  some 
forty  feet  from  the  sentry,  who  stood  with  his  rifle 
pointed  at  us.  Then  the  officer  advanced  with  the 
word. 

Back  again,  then,  along  the  road,  past  the  youthful 
sentry,  past  other  sentries,  winding  through  the  barbed- 
wire  barricade,  and  at  last,  quite  whole,  to  the  House 
of  the  Barrier  again.  We  had  walked  three  miles  in 
front  of  the  Belgian  advanced  trenches,  in  full  view  of 


NIGHT  IN  THE  TRENCHES  131 

the  Germans.  There  had  been  no  protecting  hedge  or 
bank  or  tree  between  us  and  that  ominous  line  two 
hundred  yards  across.  And  nothing  whatever  had 
happened. 

Captain  F — > —  was  indignant.  The  officers  in  the 
House  of  the  Barrier  held  up  their  hands.  For  men 
such  a  risk  was  legitimate,  necessary.  In  a  woman  it 
was  foolhardy.  Nevertheless,  now  that  it  was  safely 
over,  they  were  keenly  interested  and  rather  amused. 
But  I  have  learned  that  the  gallant  captain  and  the 
officer  with  him  had  arranged,  in  case  shooting  began, 
to  jump  into  the  water,  and  by  splashing  about  draw 
the  fire  in  their  direction ! 

We  went  back  to  the  automobile,  a  long  walk  over 
the  shell-eaten  roads  in  the  teeth  of  a  biting  wind.  But 
a  glow  of  exultation  kept  me  warm.  I  had  been  to  the 
front.  I  had  been  far  beyond  the  front,  indeed,  and 
I  had  seen  such  a  picture  of  war  and  its  desolation 
there  in  the  centre  of  No  Man's  Land  as  perhaps  no 
one  not  connected  with  an  army  had  seen  before ;  such 
a  picture  as  would  live  in  my  mind  forever. 

I  visited  other  advanced  trenches  that  night  as  we 
followed  the  Belgian  lines  slowly  northward  toward 
Nieuport. 

Save  the  varying  conditions  of  discomfort,  they 
were  all  similar.  Always  they  were  behind  the  rail- 
road embankment.  Always  they  were  dirty  and  cold. 
Frequently  they  were  full  of  mud  and  water.  To  reach 
them  one  waded  through  swamps  and  pools.  Just 
beyond  them  there  was  always  the  moonlit  stretch  of 
water,  now  narrow,  now  wide. 

I  was  to  see  other  trenches  later  on,  French  and 
English.  But  only  along  the  inundation  was  there  that 
curious  combination  of  beauty  and  hideousness,  of 


132  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

rippling  water  with  the  moonlight  across  it  in  a  silver 
path,  and  in  that  water  things  that  had  been  men. 

In  one  place  a  cow  and  a  pig  were  standing  on 
ground  a  little  bit  raised.  They  had  been  there  for 
weeks  between  the  two  armies.  Neither  side  would 
shoot  them,  in  the  hope  of  some  time  obtaining  them 
for  food. 

They  looked  peaceful,  rather  absurd. 

Now  so  near  that  one  felt  like  whispering,  and  now; 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  were  the  German  trenches. 
We  moved  under  their  fusees,  passing  destroyed  towns 
where  shell  holes  have  become  vast  graves. 

One  such  town  was  most  impressive.  It  had  been 
a  very  beautiful  town,  rather  larger  than  the  others. 
At  the  foot  of  the  main  street  ran  the  railroad  em- 
bankment and  the  line  of  trenches.  There  was  not  a 
house  left. 

It  had  been,  but  a  day  or  two  before,  the  scene  of 
a  street  fight,  when  the  Germans,  swarming  across  the 
inundation,  had  captured  the  trenches  at  the  railroad 
and  got  into  the  town  itself. 

At  the  intersection  of  two  streets,  in  a  shell  hole, 
twenty  bodies  had  been  thrown  for  burial.  But  that 
was  not  novel  or  new.  Shell-hole  graves  and  destroyed 
houses  were  nothing.  The  thing  I  shall  never  forget 
is  the  cemetery  round  the  great  church. 

Continental  cemeteries  are  always  crowded.  They 
are  old,  and  graves  almost  touch  one  another.  The 
crosses  which  mark  them  stand  like  rows  of  men  in 
close  formation. 

This  cemetery  had  been  shelled.  There  was  not  a 
cross  in  place ;  they  lay  flung  about  in  every  grotesque 
position.  The  quiet  God's  Acre  had  become  a  hell. 
Graves  were  uncovered ;  the  dust  of  centuries  exposed. 


NIGHT  IN  THE  TRENCHES  133 

In  one  the  cross  had  been  lifted  up  by  an  explosion 
and  had  settled  back  again  upside  down,  so  that  the 
Christ  was  inverted. 

It  was  curious  to  stand  in  that  chaos  of  destruction, 
that  ribald  havoc,  that  desecration  of  all  we  think  of 
as  sacred,  and  see,  stretched  from  one  broken  tomb- 
stone to  another,  the  telephone  wires  that  connect  the 
trenches  at  the  foot  of  the  street  with  headquarters 
and  with  the  "chateau." 

Ninety-six  German  soldiers  had  been  buried  in  one 
shell  hole  in  that  cemetery.  Close  beside  it  there  was 
another,  a  great  gaping  wound  in  the  earth,  half  full 
of  water  from  the  evening's  rain. 

An  officer  beside  me  looked  down  into  it. 

"See,"  he  said,  "they  dig  their  own  graves !" 

It  was  almost  morning.  The  automobile  left  the 
pathetic  ruin  of  the  town  and  turned  back  toward  the 
"chateau."  There  was  no  talking;  a  sort  of  heaviness 
of  spirit  lay  on  us  all.  The  officers  were  seeing  again 
the  destruction  of  their  country  through  my  shocked 
eyes.  We  were  tired  and  cold,  and  I  was  heartsick. 

A  long  drive  through  the  dawn,  and  then  the  "cha- 
teau." 

The  officers  were  still  up,  waiting.  They  had  pre- 
pared, against  our  arrival,  sandwiches  and  hot  drinks. 

The  American  typewriters  in  the  next  room  clicked 
'and  rattled.  At  the  telephone  board  messages  were 
coming  in  from  the  very  places  we  had  just  left — 
from  the  instrument  at  the  major's  elbow  as  he  lay  in 
his  trench  beside  the  House  of  the  Barrier;  from  the 
priest  who  had  left  his  cell  and  become  a  soldier;  from 
that  desecrated  and  ruined  graveyard  with  its  gaping 
shell  holes  that  waited,  open-mouthed,  for — what? 

When  we  had  eaten,  Captain  F rose  and  made 


134  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

a  little  speech.  It  was  simply  done,  in  the  words  of 
a  soldier  and  a  patriot  speaking  out  of  a  full  heart. 

"You  have  seen  to-night  a  part  of  what  is  happening 
to  our  country,"  he  said.  "You  have  seen  what  the 
invading  hosts  of  Germany  have  made  us  suffer.  But 
you  have  seen  more  than  that.  You  have  seen  that  the 
Belgian  Army  still  exists;  that  it  is  still  fighting  and 
will  continue  to  fight.  The  men  in  those  trenches 
fought  at  Liege,  at  Louvain,  at  Antwerp,  at  the  Yser. 
They  will  fight  as  long  as  there  is  a  drop  of  Belgian 
blood  to  shed. 

"Beyond  the  enemy's  trenches  lies  our  country,  dev- 
astated ;  our  national  life  destroyed ;  our  people  under 
the  iron  heel  of  Germany.  But  Belgium  lives.  Tell 
America,  tell  the  world,  that  destroyed,  injured  as  she 
is,  Belgium  lives  and  will  rise  again,  greater  than 
before!" 


CHAPTER  XIII 
"WIPERS" 


FROM  MY  JOURNAL: 

AN  aeroplane  man  at  the  next  table  starts  to-night 
on  a  dangerous  scouting  expedition  over  the 
German  lines.  In  case  he  does  not  return  he  has 
given  a  letter  for  his  mother  to  Captain  T . 

It  now  appears  quite  certain  that  I  am  to  be  sent 
along  the  French  and  English  lines.  I  shall  be  the 
first  correspondent,  I  am  told,  to  see  the  British  front, 
as  "Eyewitness,"  who  writes  for  the  English  papers, 
is  supposed  to  be  a  British  officer. 

I  have  had  word  also  that  I  am  to  see  Mr.  Winston 
Churchill,  the  First  Lord  of  the  British  Admiralty. 
But  to-day  I  am  going  to  Ypres.  The  Tommies  call 
it  "Wipers." 

Before  I  went  abroad  I  had  two  ambitions  among 
others:  One  was  to  be  able  to  pronounce  Ypres;  the 
other  was  to  bring  home  and  exhibit  to  my  admiring 
friends  the  pronunciation  of  Przemysl.  To  a  moder- 
ate extent  I  have  succeeded  with  the  first.  I  have 
discovered  that  the  second  one  must  be  born  to. 

Two  or  three  towns  have  stood  out  as  conspicuous 
points  of  activity  in  the  western  field.  Ypres  is  one 
of  these  towns.  Day  by  day  it  figures  in  the  reports 
from  the  front.  The  French  are  there,  and  just  to 

135 


136  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

the  east  the  English  line  commences.*  The  line  of 
trenches  lies  beyond  the  town,  forming  a  semicircle 
round  it. 

A  few  days  later  I  saw  this  semicircle,  the  flat  and 
muddy  battlefield  of  Ypres.  But  on  this  visit  I  was  to 
see  only  the  town,  which,  although  completely  de- 
stroyed, was  still  being  shelled. 

The  curve  round  the  town  gave  the  invading  army 
a  great  advantage  in  its  destruction.  It  enabled  them 
to  shell  it  from  three  directions,  so  that  it  was  raked 
by  cross  fire.  For  that  reason  the  town  of  Ypres 
presents  one  of  the  most  hideous  pictures  of  deso- 
lation of  the  present  war. 

General  M had  agreed  to  take  me  to  Ypres. 

But  as  he  was  a  Belgian  general,  and  the  town  of 
Ypres  is  held  by  the  French,  it  was  a  part  of  the 
etiquette  of  war  that  we  should  secure  the  escort 
of  a  French  officer  at  the  town  of  Poperinghe. 

For  war  has  its  etiquette,  and  of  a  most  exacting 
kind.  And  yet  in  the  end  it  simplifies  things.  It  is 
to  war  what  rules  are  to  bridge — something  to  lead 
by!  Frequently  I  was  armed  with  passes  to  visit, 
for  instance,  certain  batteries.  My  escort  was  gen- 
erally a  member  of  the  Headquarters'  Staff  of  that 
particular  army.  But  it  was  always  necessary  to  visit 
first  the  officer  in  command  of  that  battery,  who  in 
his  turn  either  accompanied  us  to  the  battlefield  or 
deputised  one  of  his  own  staff.  The  result  was  an 
imposing  number  of  uniforms  of  various  sorts,  and 
the  conviction,  as  I  learned,  among  the  gunners  that 
some  visiting  royalty  was  on  an  excursion  to  the 
front ! 

It  was  a  cold  winter  day  in  February,  a  grey  day 

*  Written  in  May,  1915. 


"WIPERS"  137 

with  a  fine  snow  that  melted  as  soon  as  it  touched 
the  ground.  Inside  the  car  we  were  swathed  in  rugs. 
The  chauffeur  slapped  his  hands  at  every  break  in 
the  journey,  and  sentries  along  the  road  hugged  such 
shelter  as  they  could  find. 

As  we  left  Poperinghe  the  French  officer,  Com- 
mandant D ,  pointed  to  a  file  of  men  plodding 

wearily  through  the  mud. 

"The  heroes  of  last  night's  attack,"  he  said.  "They 
are  very  tired,  as  you  see." 

We  stopped  the  car  and  let  the  men  file  past.  They 
did  not  look  like  heroes;  they  looked  tired  and  dirty 
and  depressed.  Although  our  automobile  generally  at- 
tracted much  attention,  scarcely  a  man  lifted  his  head 
to  glance  at  us.  They  went  on  drearily  through  the 
mud  under  the  pelting  sleet,  drooping  from  fatigue 
and  evidently  suffering  from  keen  reaction  after  the 
excitement  of  the  night  before. 

I  have  heard  the  French  soldier  crticised  for  this 
reaction.  It  may  certainly  be  forgiven  him,  in  view 
of  his  splendid  bravery.  But  part  of  the  criticism 
is  doubtless  justified.  The  English  Tommy  fights  as 
he  does  everything  else.  There  is  a  certain  sporting 
element  in  what  he  does.  He  puts  into  his  fighting 
the  same  fairness  he  puts  into  sport,  and  it  is  a  point 
of  honour  with  him  to  keep  cool.  The  English  gunner 
will  admire  the  enemy's  marksmanship  while  he  is 
ducking  a  shell. 

The  French  soldier,  on  the  other  hand,  fights  under 
keen  excitement.  He  is  temperamental,  imaginative; 
as  he  fights  he  remembers  all  the  bitterness  of  the 
past,  its  wrongs,  its  cruelties.  He  sees  blood.  There 
is  nothing  that  will  hold  him  back.  The  result  has 
made  history,  is  making  history  to-day. 


138  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

But  he  has  the  reaction  of  his  temperament.  Who 
shall  say  he  is  not  entitled  to  it? 

Something  of  this  I  mentioned  to  Monsieur  le  Com- 
mandant as  the  line  filed  past. 

"It  is  because  it  is  fighting  that  gets  nowhere," 
he  replied.  "If  our  men,  after  such  an  attack,  could 
advance,  could  do  anything  but  crawl  back  into  holes 
full  of  water  and  mud,  you  would  see  them  gay  and 
smiling  to-day." 

After  a  time  I  discovered  that  the  same  situation 
holds  to  a  certain  extent  in  all  the  armies.  If  his 
fighting  gets  him  anywhere  the  soldier  is  content.  The 
line  has  made  a  gain.  What  matter  wet  trenches,  dis- 
comfort, freezing  cold?  The  line  has  made  a  gain. 
It  is  lack  of  movement  that  sends  their  spirits  down, 
the  fearful  boredom  of  the  trenches,  varied  only  by 
the  dropping  shells,  so  that  they  term  themselves, 
ironically,  "Cannon  food." 

We  left  the  victorious  company  behind,  making 
their  way  toward  whatever  church  bedded  down  with 
straw,  or  coach-house  or  drafty  barn  was  to  house 
them  for  their  rest  period. 

"They  have  been  fighting  waist-deep  in  water/' 
said  the  Commandant,  "and  last  night  was  cold.  The 
British  soldier  rubs  his  body  with  oil  and  grease  be- 
fore he  dresses  for  the  trenches.  I  hope  that  before , 
long  our  men  may  do  this  also.  It  is  a  great  pro- 
tection." 

I  have  in  front  of  me  now  a  German  soldier's 
fatigue  cap,  taken  by  one  of  those  men  from  a  dead 
soldier  who  lay  in  front  of  the  trench. 

It  is  a  pathetic  cap,  still  bearing  the  crease  which 
showed  how  he  folded  it  to  thrust  it  into  his  pocket. 
When  his  helmet  irked  him  in  the  trenches  he  was 


"WIPERS"  139 


allowed  to  take  it  off  and  put  this  on.  He  belonged 
to  Bavarian  Regiment  Number  Fifteen,  and  the  cap 
was  given  him  in  October,  1914.  There  is  a  blood- 
stain on  one  side  of  it.  Also  it  is  spotted  with  mud 
inside  and  out.  It  is  a  pathetic  little  cap,  because 
when  its  owner  died,  that  night  before,  a  thousand 
other  Germans  died  with  him,  died  to  gain  a  trench 
two  hundred  yards  from  their  own  line,  a  trench  to 
capture  which  would  have  gained  them  little  but  glory, 
and  which,  since  they  failed,  lost  them  everything, 
even  life  itself. 

We  were  out  of  the  town  by  this  time,  and  started 
on  the  road  to  Ypres.  Between  Poperinghe  and  Ypres 
were  numerous  small  villages  with  narrow,  twisting 
streets.  They  were  filled  with  soldiers  at  rest,  with 
tethered  horses  being  re-shod  by  army  blacksmiths, 
with  small  fires  in  sheltered  corners  on  which  an 
anxious  cook  had  balanced  a  kettle. 

In  each  town  a  proclamation  had  been  nailed  to  a 
wall  and  the  townspeople  stood  about  it,  gaping. 

"An  inoculation  proclamation,"  explained  the  Com- 
mandant. "There  is  typhoid  here,  so  the  civilians  are 
to  be  inoculated.  They  are  very  much  excited  about 
it.  It  appears  to  them  worse  than  a  bombard- 
ment." 

We  passed  a  file  of  Spahis,  native  Algerians  who 
speak  Arabic.  They  come  from  Tunis  and  Algeria, 
and,  as  may  be  imagined,  they  were  suffering  bitterly 
from  the  cold. 

They  peered  at  us  with  bright,  black  eyes  from  the 
encircling  folds  of  the  great  cloaks  with  pointed  hoods 
which  they  had  drawn  closely  about  them.  They  have 
French  officers  and  interpreters,  and  during  the  spring 
fighting  they  probably  proved  very  valuable.  During 


140  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

the  winter  they  gave  me  the  impression  of  being  out 
of  place  and  rather  forlorn.  Like  the  Indian  troops 
with  the  British,  they  were  fighting  a  new  warfare. 
For  gallant  charges  over  dry  desert  sands  had  been 
substituted  mud  and  mist  and  bitter  cold,  and  the  stag- 
nation of  armies. 

Terrible  tales  have  been  told  of  the  ferocity  of 
these  Arabs,  and  of  the  Turcos  also.  I  am  inclined 
to  think  they  are  exaggerated.  But  certainly,  met 
with  on  a  lonely  road,  these  long  files  of  men  in  their 
quaint  costumes  moving  silently  along  with  heads 
lowered  against  the  wind  were  sombre,  impressive 
and  rather  alarming. 

The  car,  going  furiously,  skidded,  was  pulled 
sharply  round  and  righted  itself.  The  conversation 
went  on.  No  one  appeared  to  notice  that  we  had  been 
on  the  edge  of  eternity,  and  it  was  not  for  me  to 
mention  it.  But  I  made  a  jerky  entry  in  my  note- 
book: 

"Very  casual  here  about  human  life.  Enlarge  on 
this." 

The  general,  who  was  a  Belgian,  continued  his  com- 
plaint. It  was  about  the  Belgian  absentee  tax. 

The  Germans  now  in  control  in  Belgium  had  im- 
posed an  absentee  tax  of  ten  times  the  normal  on  all 
Belgians  who  had  left  the  country  and  did  not  re- 
turn by  the  fifteenth  of  March.  The  general  snorted 
his  rage  and  disgust. 

"But,"  I  said  innocently,  "I  should  think  it  would 
make  very  little  difference  to  you.  You  are  not  there, 
so  of  course  you  cannot  pay  it.'* 

"Not  there!"  he  said.  "Of  course  I  am  not  there. 
But  everything  I  own  in  the  world  is  there,  except 
this  uniform  that  I  have  on  my  back." 


"WIPERS"  141 

"They  would  confiscate  it  ?"  I  asked.  "Not  the  uni- 
form, of  course ;  I  mean  your  property." 

He  broke  into  a  torrent  of  rapid  French.  I  felt 
quite  sure  that  he  was  saying  that  they  would  con- 
fiscate it;  that  they  would  annihilate  it,  reduce  it 
to  its  atomic  constituents ;  take  it,  acres  and  buildings 
and  shade  trees  and  vegetable  garden,  back  to  Ger- 
many. But  as  his  French  was  of  the  ninety  horse- 
power variety  and  mine  travels  afoot,  like  Bayard 
Taylor,  and  limps  at  that,  I  never  caught  up  with 
him. 

Later  on,  in  a  calmer  moment,  I  had  the  thing  ex- 
plained to  me. 

It  appears  that  the  Germans  have  instituted  a  tax 
on  all  the  Belgian  refugees  of  ten  times  the  normal 
tax;  the  purpose  being  to  bring  back  into  Belgium 
such  refugees  as  wish  to  save  the  remnants  of  their 
property.  This  will  mean  bringing  back  people  of 
the  better  class  who  have  property  to  save.  It  will 
mean  to  the  far-seeing  German  mind  a  return  of  the 
better  class  of  Belgians  to  reorganise  things,  to  put 
that  prostrate  country  on  its  feet  again,  to  get  the 
poorer  classes  to  work,  to  make  it  self -supporting. 

"The  real  purpose,  of  course,"  said  my  informant, 
"is  so  that  American  sympathy,  now  so  potent,  will 
cease  for  both  refugees  and  interned  Belgians.  If 
the  factories  start,  and  there  is  work  for  them,  and 
the  refugees  still  refuse  to  return,  you  can  see  what  it 
means." 

He  may  be  right;  I  do  not  think  so.  I  believe 
that  at  this  moment  Germany  regards  Belgium  as  a 
new  but  integral  part  of  the  German  Empire,  and 
that  she  wishes  to  see  this  new  waste  land  of  hers 
productive.  Assuredly  Germany  has  made  a  serious 


142  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

effort  to  reorganise  and  open  again  some  of  the  great 
Belgian  factories  that  are  now  idle. 

In  one  instance  that  I  know  of  a  manufacturer  was 
offered  a  large  guarantee  to  come  back  and  put  his 
factory  into  operation  again.  He  refused,  although 
he  knew  that  it  spelled  ruin.  The  Germans,  unable 
themselves  at  this  time  to  put  skilled  labour  in  his  mill, 
sent  its  great  machines  by  railroad  back  into  Ger- 
many. I  have  been  told  that  this  has  happened  in 
a  number  of  instances.  Certainly  it  sounds  entirely 
probable. 

The  factory  owner  in  question  is  in  America  at 
the  time  I  am  writing  this,  obtaining  credit  and  new 
machines  against  the  time  of  the  retirement  of  the 
German  Army. 

From  the  tax  the  conversation  went  on  to  the 
finances  of  Belgium.  I  learned  that  the  British  Gov- 
ernment, through  the  Bank  of  England,  is  guaran- 
teeing the  payment  of  the  Belgian  war  indemnity  to 
Germany!  The  war  indemnity  is  over  nineteen  mil- 
lion pounds,  or  approximately  ninety-six  millions  of 
dollars.  Of  this  the  Belgian  authorities  are  instructed 
to  pay  over  nine  million  dollars  each  month. 

The  Societe  Generale  de  Belgique  has  been  obliged 
by  the  German  Government  to  accept  the  power  of 
issuing  notes,  on  a  strict  understanding  that  it  must 
guarantee  the  note  issue  on  the  gold  reserve  and  for- 
eign bill  book,  which  is  at  present  deposited  in  the 
Bank  of  England  at  London.  If  the  Societe  Generale 
de  Belgique  had  not  done  so,  all  notes  of  the  Bank 
of  Belgium  would  have  been  declared  valueless  by 
Germany. 

A  very  prominent  Englishman,  married  to  a  Bel- 
gian lady,  told  me  a  story  about  this  goM  reserve 


"WIPERS"  143 


which  is  amusing  enough  to  repeat,  and  which  has  a 
certain  appearance  of  truth. 

When  the  Germans  took  possession  of  Brussels, 
he  said,  their  first  move  was  to  send  certain  officers 
to  the  great  Brussels  Bank,  in  whose  vaults  the  gold 
reserve  was  kept.  The  word  had  been  sent  ahead , 
that  they  were  coming,  and  demanding  that  certain 
high  officials  of  the  bank  were  to  be  present. 

The  officials  went  to  the  bank,  and  the  German 
officers  presented  themselves  promptly. 

The  conversation  was  brief. 

"Take  us  to  the  vaults,"  said  one  of  the  German 
officers. 

"To  the  vaults?"  said  the  principal  official  of  the 
bank. 

"To  the  vaults,"  was  the  curt  reply. 

"I  am  not  the  vault  keeper.  We  shall  have  to  send 
for  him." 

The  bank  official  was  most  courteous,  quite  bland, 
indeed.  The  officer  scowled,  but  there  was  nothing 
to  do  but  wait. 

The  vault  keeper  was  sent  for.  It  took  some  time 
to  find  him. 

The  bank  official  commented  on  the  weather,  which 
was,  he  considered,  extremely  warm. 

At  last  the  vault  keeper  came.  He  was  quite  breath- 
less. But  it  seemed  that,  not  knowing  why  he  came, 
he  had  neglected  to  bring  his  keys.  The  bank  official 
regretted  the  delay.  The  officers  stamped  about. 

"It  looks  like  a  shower,"  said  the  bank  official. 
"Later  in  the  day  it  may  be  cooler." 

The  officers  muttered  among  themselves. 

It  took  the  vault  keeper  a  long  time  to  get  his  keys 
and  return,  but  at  last  he  arrived.  They  went  down 


144  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

and  down,  through  innumerable  doors  that  must  be 
unlocked  before  them,  through  gratings  and  more 
steel  doors.  And  at  last  they  stood  in  the  vaults. 

The  German  officers  stared  about  and  then  turned 
to  the  Belgian  official. 

"The  gold!"  they  said  furiously.  "Where  is  the 
gold?" 

"The  gold!"  said  the  official,  much  surprised. 
"You  wished  to  see  the  gold?  I  am  sorry.  You 
asked  for  the  vaults  and  I  have  shown  you  the 
vaults.  The  gold,  of  course,  is  in  England." 

We  sped  on,  the  same  flat  country,  the  same  grey 
fields,  the  same  files  of  soldiers  moving  across  those 
fields  toward  distant  billets,  the  same  transports 
and  ambulances,  and  over  all  the  same  colourless  sky. 

Not  very  long  ago  some  inquiring  British  scientist 
discovered  that  on  foggy  days  in  London  the  efficiency 
of  the  average  clerk  was  cut  down  about  fifty  per 
cent.  One  begins  to  wonder  how  much  of  this  winter 
impasse  is  due  to  the  weather,  and  what  the  bright 
and  active  days  of  early  spring  will  bring.  Cer- 
tainly the  weather  that  day  weighed  on  me.  It  was 
easier  to  look  out  through  the  window  of  the  car 
than  to  get  out  and  investigate.  The  penetrating  cold 
dulled  our  spirits. 

A  great  lorry  had  gone  into  the  mud  at  the  side 
of  the  road  and  was  being  dug  out.  A  horse  neatly 
disembowelled  lay  on  its  back  in  the  road,  its  four 
stark  legs  pointed  upward. 

"They  have  been  firing  at  a  German  Taube"  said 
the  Commandant,  "and  naturally  what  goes  up  must 
come  down." 

On  the  way  back  we  saw  the  same  horse.  It  was 
dark  by  that  time,  and  some  peasants  had  gathered 


"WIPERS"  145 

round  the  carcass  with  a  lantern.  The  hide  had  been 
cut  away  and  lay  at  one  side,  and  the  peasants 
were  carving  the  animal  into  steaks  and  roasts.  For 
once  fate  had  been  good  to  them.  They  would  dine 
that  night. 

Everywhere  here  and  there  along  the  road  we  had 
passed  the  small  sheds  that  sentries  built  to  protect 
themselves  against  the  wind,  little  huts  the  size  of  an 
American  patrol  box,  built  of  the  branches  of  trees 
and  thatched  all  about  with  straw. 

Now  we  passed  one  larger  than  the  others,  a  shed 
with  the  roof  thatched  and  the  sides  plastered  with 
mud  to  keep  out  the  cold. 

The  Commandant  halted  the  car.  There  was  one 
bare  little  room  with  a  wooden  bench  and  a  door. 
The  bench  and  the  door  had  just  played  their  part 
in  a  tragedy. 

I  have  been  asked  again  and  again  whether  it  is 
true  that  on  both  sides  of  the  line  disheartened  sol- 
diers have  committed  suicide  during  this  long  winter 
of  waiting.  I  have  always  replied  that  I  do  not 
know.  On  the  Allied  side  it  is  thought  that  many 
Germans  have  done  so;  I  daresay  the  Germans  make 
the  same  contention.  This  one  instance  is  perfectly 
true.  But  it  was  the  result  of  an  accident,  not  of  dis- 
couragement. 

The  sentry  was  alone  in  his  hut,  and  he  was  cleaning 
his  gun.  For  a  certain  length  of  time  he  would  be 
alone.  In  some  way  the  gun  exploded  and  blew  off 
his  right  hand.  There  was  no  one  to  call  on  for 
help.  He  waited  quite  a  while.  It  was  night.  No- 
body came;  he  was  suffering  frightfully. 

Perhaps,  sitting  there  alone,  he  tried  to  think  out 
what  life  would  be  without  a  right  hand.  In  the  end 


146  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

he  decided  that  it  was  not  worth  while.  But  he 
could  not  pull  the  trigger  of  his  gun  with  his  left  hand. 
He  tried  it  and  failed.  So  at  last  he  tied  a  stout  cord 
to  the  trigger,  fastened  the  end  of  it  to  the  door,  and 
sitting  on  the  bench  kicked  the  door  to.  They  had  just 
taken  him  away. 

Just  back  of  Ypres  there  is  a  group  of  buildings 
that  had  been  a  great  lunatic  asylum.  It  is  now  a  hos- 
pital for  civilians,  although  it  is  partially  destroyed. 

"During  the  evacuation  of  the  town,"  said  the  Com- 
mandant, "it  was  decided  that  the  inmates  must  be 
taken  out.  The  asylum  had  been  hit  once  and  shells 
were  falling  in  every  direction.  So  the  nuns  dressed 
their  patients  and  started  to  march  them  back  along 
the  route  to  the  nearest  town.  Shells  were  falling 
all  about  them ;  the  nuns  tried  to  hurry  them,  but 
as  each  shell  fell  or  exploded  close  at  hand  the  luna- 
tics cheered  and  clapped  their  hands.  They  could 
hardly  get  them  away  at  all ;  they  wanted  to  stay  and 
see  the  excitement." 

That  is  a  picture,  if  you  like.  It  was  a  very  large 
asylum,  containing  hundreds  of  patients.  The  nuns 
could  not  hurry  them.  They  stood  in  the  roads,  faces 
upturned  to  the  sky,  where  death  was  whining  its 
shrill  cry  overhead.  When  a  shell  dropped  into  the 
road,  or  into  the  familiar  fields  about  them,  tearing 
great  holes,  flinging  earth  and  rocks  in  every  direc- 
tion, they  cheered.  They  blocked  the  roads,  so  that 
gunners  with  badly  needed  guns  could  not  get  by. 
And  behind  and  all  round  them  the  nuns  urged  them 
on  in  vain.  Some  of  them  were  killed,  I  believe. 
All  about  great  holes  in  fields  and  road  tell  the  story 
of  the  hell  that  beat  about  them. 

Here  behind  the  town  one  sees  fields  of  graves 


"WIPERS"  147 

marked  each  with  a  simple  wooden  cross.    Here  and 
there  a  soldier's  cap  has  been  nailed  to  the  cross. 

The  officers  told  me  that  in  various  places  the 
French  peasants  had  placed  the  dead  soldier's  number 
and  identifying  data  in  a  bottle  and  placed  it  on  the 
grave.  But  I  did  not  see  this  myself. 

Unlike  American  towns,  there  is  no  gradual  ap- 
proach to  these  cities  of  Northern  France;  no  strag- 
gling line  of  suburbs.  Many  of  them  were  laid  out 
at  a  time  when  walled  cities  rose  from  the  plain,  and 
although  the  walls  are  gone  the  tradition  of  com- 
pactness for  protection  still  holds  good.  So  one  mo- 
ment we  were  riding  through  the  shell-holed  fields  of 
Northern  France  and  the  next  we  were  in  the  city 
of  Ypres. 

At  the  time  of  my  visit  few  civilians  had  seen  the 
city  of  Ypres  since  its  destruction.  I  am  not  sure  that 
any  had  been  there.  I  have  seen  no  description  of  it, 
and  I  have  been  asked  frequently  if  it  is  really  true 
that  the  beautiful  Cloth  Hall  is  gone — that  most  fa- 
mous of  all  the  famous  buildings  of  Flanders. 

Ypres ! 

What  a  tragedy !  Not  a  city  now ;  hardly  a  skeleton 
of  a  city.  Rumour  is  correct,  for  the  wonderful  Cloth 
Hall  is  gone.  There  is  a  fragment  left  of  the  fagade, 
but  no  repairing  can  ever  restore  it.  It  must  all  come 
down.  Indeed,  any  storm  may  finish  its  destruction. 
The  massive  square  belfry,  two  hundred  and  thirty 
feet  high  and  topped  by  its  four  turrets,  is  a  shell 
swaying  in  every  gust  of  wind. 

The  inimitable  arcade  at  the  end  is  quite  gone. 
Nothing  indeed  is  left  of  either  the  Cloth  Hall,  which* 
built  in  the  year  1200,  was  the  most  remarkable  edi- 
fice of  Belgium,  or  of  the  Cathedral  behind  it,  erected 


148  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

in  1300  to  succeed  an  earlier  edifice.  General  M — • — 
stood  by  me  as  I  stared  at  the  ruins  of  these  two  great 
buildings.  Something  of  the  tragedy  of  Belgium  was 
in  his  face. 

"We  were  very  proud  of  it,"  he  said.  "If  we 
started  now  to  build  another  it  would  take  more  than 
seven  hundred  years  to  give  it  history." 

There  were  shells  overhead.  But  they  passed  harm- 
lessly, falling  either  into  the  open  country  or  into 
distant  parts  of  the  town.  We  paid  no  attention  to 
them,  but  my  curiosity  was  roused. 

"It  seems  absurd  to  continue  shelling  the  town,"  I 
said.  "There  is  nothing  left." 

Then  and  there  I  had  a  lesson  in  the  new  warfare. 
Bombardment  of  the  country  behind  the  enemy's 
trenches  is  not  necessarily  to  destroy  towns.  Its 
strategical  purpose,  I  was  told,  is  to  cut  off  communi- 
cations, to  prevent,  if  possible,  the  bringing  up  of  re- 
serve troops  and  transport  wagons,  to  destroy  am- 
munition trains.  I  was  new  to  war,  with  everything 
to  learn.  This  perfectly  practical  explanation  had 
not  occurred  to  me. 

"But  how  do  they  know  when  an  ammunition  train 
is  coming?"  I  asked. 

"There  are  different  methods.  Spies,  of  course,  al- 
ways. And  aeroplanes  also." 

"But  an  ammunition  train  moves." 

It  was  necessary  then  to  explain  the  various 
methods  by  which  aeroplanes  signal,  giving  ranges 
and  locations.  I  have  seen  since  that  time  the  charts 
carried  by  aviators  and  airship  crews,  in  which  every 
hedge,  every  ditch,  every  small  detail  of  the  land- 
scape is  carefully  marked.  In  the  maps  I  have  seen 
the  region  is  divided  into  lettered  squares,  each  square 


"WIPERS"  149 


made  up  of  four  small  squares,  numbered.  Thus  B 
3  means  the  third  block  of  the  B  division,  and  so  on. 
By  wireless  or  in  other  ways  the  message  is  sent  to 
the  batteries,  and  B  3,  along  which  an  ammunition 
train  is  moving,  suddenly  finds  itself  under  fire.  Thus 
ended  the  second  lesson! 

An  ammunition  train,  having  safely  escaped  B  3 
and  all  the  other  terrors  that  are  spread  for  such 
as  it,  rumbled  by,  going  through  the  Square.  The 
very  vibration  of  its  wheels  as  they  rattled  along  the 
street  set  parts  of  the  old  building  to  shaking.  Stones 
fell.  It  was  not  safe  to  stand  near  the  belfry. 

Up  to  this  time  I  had  found  a  certain  philosophy 
among  the  French  and  Belgian  officers  as  to  the  de- 
struction of  their  towns.  Not  of  Louvain,  of  course, 
or  those  earlier  towns  destroyed  during  the  German 
invasion,  but  of  the  bombardment  which  is  taking 
place  now  along  the  battle  line.  But  here  I  encoun- 
tered furious  resentment. 

There  is  nothing  whatever  left  of  the  city  for  sev- 
eral blocks  in  each  direction  round  the  Cloth  Hall. 
At  the  time  it  was  destroyed  the  army  of  the  Allies 
was  five  miles  in  advance  of  the  town.  The  shells 
went  over  their  heads  for  days,  weeks.  , 

So  accurate  is  modern  gunnery  that  given  a  chart 
of  a  city  the  gunner  can  drop  a  shell  within  a  few 
yards  of  any  desired  spot.  The  Germans  had  a  chart 
of  Ypres.  They  might  have  saved  the  Cloth  Hall,  as 
they  did  save  the  Cathedral  at  Antwerp.  But  they  were 
furious  with  thwarted  ambition — the  onward  drive  had 
been  checked.  Instead  of  attempting  to  save  the  Cloth 
Hall  they  focussed  all  their  fire  on  it.  There  was 
nothing  to  gain  by  this  wanton  destruction. 

It  is  a  little  difficult  in  America,  where  great  struc- 


150  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

tures  are  a  matter  of  steel  and  stone  erected  in  a  year 
or  so,  to  understand  what  its  wonderful  old  build- 
ings meant  to  Flanders.  In  a  way  they  typified  its 
history,  certainly  its  art.  The  American  likes  to  have 
his  art  in  his  home;  he  buys  great  paintings  and  puts 
them  on  the  walls.  He  covers  his  floors  with  the 
entire  art  of  a  nomadic  people.  But  on  the  Conti- 
nent the  method  is  different.  They  have  built  their 
art  into  their  buildings;  their  great  paintings  are  in 
churches  or  in  structures  like  the  Cloth  Hall.  Their 
homes  are  comparatively  unadorned,  purely  places  for 
living.  All  that  they  prize  they  have  stored,  open  to 
the  world,  in  their  historic  buildings.  It  is  for  that 
reason  that  the  destruction  of  the  Cloth  Hall  of  Ypres 
is  a  matter  of  personal  resentment  to  each  individual 
of  the  nation  to  which  it  belonged.  So  I  watched  the 
faces  of  the  two  officers  with  me.  There  could  be  no 
question  as  to  their  attitude.  It  was  a  personal  loss 
they  had  suffered.  The  loss  of  their  homes  they  had 
accepted  stoically.  But  this  was  much  more.  It  was 
the  loss  of  their  art,  their  history,  their  tradition. 
And  it  could  not  be  replaced. 

The  firing  was  steady,  unemotional. 

As  the  wind  died  down  we  ventured  into  the  ruins 
of  the  Cloth  Hall  itself.  The  roof  is  gone,  of  course. 
The  building  took  fire  from  the  bombardment,  and 
what  the  shells  did  not  destroy  the  fire  did.  Melted 
lead  from  ancient  gutters  hung  in  stalactites.  In  one 
place  a  wall  was  still  standing,  with  a  bit  of  its  mural 
decoration.  I  picked  up  a  bit  of  fallen  gargoyle  from 
under  the  fallen  tower  and  brought  it  away.  It  is 
before  me  now. 

It  is  seven  hundred  and  fifteen  years  since  that 
gargoyle  was  lifted  into  its  place.  The  Crusades  were 


"WIPERS"  151 

going  on  about  that  time;  the  robber  barons  were 
sallying  out  onto  the  plains  on  their  raiding  excur- 
sions. The  Norman  Conquest  had  taken  place.  From 
this  very  town  of  Ypres  had  gone  across  the  Channel 
"workmen  and  artisans  to  build  churches  and  feudal 
castles,  weavers  and  workers  of  many  crafts." 

In  those  days  the  Yperlee,  a  small  river,  ran  open 
through  the  town.  But  for  many  generations  it  has 
been  roofed  over  and  run  under  the  public  square. 

It  was  curious  to  stand  on  the  edge  of  a  great  shell 
hole  and  look  down  at  the  little  river,  now  uncovered 
to  the  light  of  day  for  the  first  time  in  who  knows  how 
long. 

In  all  that  chaos,  with  hardly  a  wall  intact,  at  the 
corner  of  what  was  once  the  cathedral,  stood  a  heroic 
marble  figure  of  Burgomaster  Vandenpeereboom.  It 
was  quite  untouched  and  as  placid  as  the  little  river,  a 
benevolent  figure  rising  from  the  ruins  of  war. 

"They  have  come  like  a  pestilence,"  said  the  Gen- 
eral. "When  they  go  they  will  leave  nothing.  What 
they  will  do  is  written  in  what  they  have  done." 

Monsieur  le  Commandant  had  disappeared.  Now 
he  returned  triumphant,  carrying  a  great  bundle  in 
both  arms. 

"I  have  been  to  what  was  the  house  of  a  relative," 
he  explained.  "He  has  told  me  that  in  the  cellar  I 
would  find  these.  They  will  interest  you." 

"These"  proved  to  be  five  framed  photographs  of 
the  great  paintings  that  had  decorated  the  walls  of  the 
great  Cloth  Hall.  Although  they  had  been  hidden  in 
a  cellar,  fragments  of  shell  had  broken  and  torn  them. 
But  it  was  still  possible  to  gain  from  them  a  faint  idea 
of  the  interior  beauty  of  the  old  building  before  its  de- 
struction. 


152  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

I  examined  them  there  in  the  public  square,  with 
a  shell  every  now  and  then  screeching  above  but  fall- 
ing harmlessly  far  away. 

A  priest  joined  us.  He  told  pathetically  of  watch- 
ing the  destruction  of  the  Arcade,  of  seeing  one  arch 
after  another  go  down  until  there  was  nothing  left. 

"They  ate  it,"  said  the  priest  graphically.  "A  bite 
at  a  time." 

We  walked  through  the  town.  One  street  after 
another  opened  up  its  perspective  of  destruction. 
The  strange  antics  that  shell  fire  plays  had  left  doors 
and  lintels  standing  without  buildings,  had  left  intact 
here  and  there  pieces  of  furniture.  There  was  an 
occasional  picture  on  an  exposed  wall;  iron  street 
lamps  had  been  twisted  into  travesties;  whole  panes 
of  glass  remained  in  fagades  behind  which  the  build- 
ings were  gone.  A  part  of  the  wooden  scaffolding 
by  which  repairs  were  being  made  to  the  old  tower 
of  the  Cloth  Hall  hung  there  uninjured  by  either  flame 
or  shell. 

On  one  street  all  the  trees  had  been  cut  off  as  if 
by  one  shell,  about  ten  feet  above  the  ground,  but  in 
another,  where  nothing  whatever  remained  but  piles 
of  stone  and  mortar,  a  great  elm  had  apparently  not 
lost  a  single  branch. 

Much  has  been  written  about  the  desolation  of  these 
towns.  To  get  a  picture  of  it  one  must  realise  the 
solidity  with  which  even  the  private  houses  are  built. 
They  are  stone,  or  if  not,  the  walls  are  of  massive 
brick  coated  with  plaster.  There  are  no  frame  build- 
ings; wood  is  too  expensive  for  that  purpose.  It  is 
only  in  prodigal  America  that  we  can  use  wood. 

So  the  destruction  of  a  town  there  means  the  de- 
struction of  buildings  that  have  stood  for  centuries, 


"WIPERS"  153 


and  would  in  the  normal  course  of  events  have  stood 
for  centuries  more. 

A  few  civilians  had  crept  back  into  the  town.  As 
in  other  places,  they  had  come  back  because  they  had 
no  place  else  to  go.  At  any  time  a  shell  might  de- 
stroy the  fragment  of  the  building  in  which  they 
were  trying  to  reestablish  themselves.  There  were  no 
shops  open,  because  there  were  no  shops  to  open. 
Supplies  had  to  be  brought  from  long  distances.  As 
all  the  horses  and  automobiles  had  been  commandeered 
by  the  government,  they  had  no  way  to  get  anything. 
Their  situation  was  pitiable,  tragic.  And  over  them 
was  the  daily,  hourly  fear  that  the  German  Army 
would  concentrate  for  its  onward  drive  at  some 
near-by  point. 


CHAPTER   XIV 
LADY   DECIES'    STORY 


TT  was  growing  dark;  the  chauffeur  was  prepar- 
•*•  ing  to  light  the  lamps  of  the  car.  Shells  were 
fewer.  With  the  approach  of  night  the  activity  be- 
hind the  lines  increased ;  more  ammunition  trains  made 
their  way  over  the  debris ;  regiments  prepared  for  the 
trenches  marched  through  the  square  on  their  way 
to  the  front. 

They  were  laden,  as  usual,  with  extra  food  and 
jars  of  water.  Almost  every  man  had  an  additional 
loaf  of  bread  strapped  to  the  knapsack  at  his  back. 
^They  were  laughing  and  talking  among  themselves, 
for  they  had  had  a  sleep  and  hot  food;  for  the  time 
at  least  they  were  dry  and  fed  and  warm. 

On  the  way  out  of  the  town  we  passed  a  small 
restaurant,  one  of  a  row  of  houses.  It  was  the  only 
undestroyed  building  I  saw  in  Ypres. 

"It  is  the  only  house,"  said  the  General,  "where 
the  inhabitants  remained  during  the  entire  bombard- 
ment.  They  made  coffee  for  the  soldiers  and  served 
meals  to  officers.  Shells  hit  the  pavement  and  broke 
the  windows;  but  the  house  itself  is  intact.  It  is  ex- 
traordinary." 

We  stopped  at  the  one-time  lunatic  asylum  on  our 
way  back.  It  had  been  converted  into  a  hospital  for 
injured  civilians,  and  its  long  wards  were  full  of 

154 


LADY  DECIES'  STORY  155 

women  and  children.  An  English  doctor  was  in 
charge. 

Some  of  the  buildings  had  been  destroyed,  but  in 
the  main  it  had  escaped  serious  injury.  By  a  curious 
fatality  that  seems  to  have  followed  the  chapels  and 
(churches  of  Flanders,  the  chapel  was  the  only  part  that 
was  entirely  gone.  One  great  shell  struck  it  while  it 
was  housing  soldiers,  as  usual,  and  all  of  them  were 
killed.  As  an  example  of  the  work  of  one  shell  the 
destruction  of  that  building  was  enormous.  There 
was  little  or  nothing  left. 

"The  shell  was  four  feet  high,"  said  the  Doctor, 
and  presented  me  with  the  nose  of  it. 

"You  may  get  more  at  any  moment,"  I  said. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "What  must  be,  must 
be,"  he  said  quietly. 

When  the  bombardment  was  at  its  height,  he  said, 
they  took  their  patients  to  the  cellar  and  continued 
operating  there.  They  had  only  a  candle  or  two. 
But  it  was  impossible  to  stop,  for  the  wards  were 
full  of  injured  women  and  children. 

I  walked  through  some  of  the  wards.  It  was  the 
first  time  I  had  seen  together  so  many  of  the  inno- 
cent victims  of  this  war — children  blind  and  forever 
cut  off  from  the  light  of  day,  little  girls  with  arms 
gone,  women  who  will  never  walk  again. 

It  was  twilight.  Here  and  there  a  candle  gleamed, 
for  any  bright  illumination  was  considered  unwise. 

What  must  they  think  as  they  lie  there  during  the 
long  dark  hours  between  twilight  and  the  late  winter 
morning?  Like  the  sentry,  many  of  them  must  won- 
der if  it  is  worth  while.  These  are  people,  most  of 
them,  who  have  lived  by  their  labour.  What  will 
they  do  when  the  war  is  over,  or  when,  having  made 


156  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

such  recovery  as  they  may,  the  hospital  opens  its 
doors  and  must  perforce  turn  them  out  on  the  very 
threshold  of  war? 

And  yet  they  cling  to  life.  I  met  a  man  who  crossed 
the  Channel — I  believe  it  was  from  Flushing — with 
the  first  lot  of  hopelessly  wounded  English  prisoners 
who  had  been  sent  home  to  England  from  Germany 
in  exchange  for  as  many  wrecked  and  battered  Ger- 
mans on  their  way  back  to  the  Fatherland. 

One  young  boy  was  all  eagerness.  His  home  was 
on  the  cliff  above  the  harbour  which  was  their  destina- 
tion. He  alternately  wept  and  cheered. 

"They'll  be  glad  enough  to  see  me,  all  right,"  he 
said.  "It's  six  months  since  they  heard  from  me. 
More  than  likely  they  think  I'm  lying  over  there  with 
some  of  the  other  chaps." 

He  was  in  a  wheeled  chair.  In  his  excitement 
the  steamer  rug  slipped  down.  Both  his  legs  were 
gone  above  the  knees! 

Our  hands  were  full.  The  General  had  picked  up 
a  horseshoe  on  the  street  at  Ypres  and  given  it  to  me 
to  bring  me  luck;  the  Commandant  had  the  framed 
pictures.  The  General  carried  the  gargoyle  wrapped 
in  a  newspaper.  I  had  the  nose  of  the  shell. 

We  walked  through  the  courtyard,  with  its  broken 
fountain  and  cracked  walks,  out  to  the  machine.  The 
password  for  the  night  was  "ficosse,"  which  means 
"Scotland."  The  General  gave  the  word  to  the  or- 
derly and  we  went  on  again  toward  Poperinghe,  where 
we  were  to  have  coffee. 

The  firing  behind  us  had  ceased.  Possibly  the  Ger- 
man gunners  were  having  coffee  also.  We  went  at 
our  usual  headlong  speed  through  almost  empty  roads. 
Now  and  then  a  lantern  waved.  We  checked  our 


LADY  DECIES'  STORY  157 

headlong  speed  to  give  the  password,  and  on  again. 
More  lanterns;  more  challenges. 

Since  we  passed,  a  few  hours  before,  another  car 
had  been  wrecked  by  the  road.  One  sees  these  cars 
everywhere,  lying  on  their  sides,  turned  turtle  in 
ditches,  bent  and  twisted  against  trees.  No  one  seems 
to  be  hurt  in  these  accidents ;  at  least  one  hears  noth- 
ing of  them,  if  they  are.  And  now  we  were  back 
at  Poperinghe  again. 

The  Commandant  had  his  headquarters  in  the 
house  of  a  notary.  Except  in  one  instance,  all  the 
houses  occupied  by  the  headquarters'  staffs  that  I 
visited  were  the  houses  of  notaries.  Perhaps  the  no- 
tary is  the  important  man  of  a  French  town.  I  do  not 
know. 

This  was  a  double  house  with  a  centre  hall,  a  house 
of  some  pretension  in  many  ways.  But  it  had  only 
one  lamp.  When  we  went  from  one  room  to  another 
we  took  the  lamp  with  us.  It  was  not  even  a  hand- 
some lamp.  In  that  very  comfortable  house  it  was  one 
of  the  many  anomalies  of  war. 

One  or  two  of  the  best  things  from  the  museum 
at  Ypres  had  been  secured  and  brought  back  here. 
On  a  centre  table  was  a  bronze  equestrian  statue 
in  miniature  of  a  Crusader,  a  beautiful  piece  of  work. 

While  we  were  waiting  for  coffee  the  Commandant 
opened  the  lower  drawer  of  a  secretary  and  took  out 
a  letter. 

"This  may  interest  Madame,"  he  said.  "I  have 
just  received  it.  It  is  from  General  Leman,  the  hero 
of  Liege." 

He  held  it  close  to  the  lamp  and  read  it.  I  have 
the  envelope  before  me  now.  It  is  addressed  in 
lead  pencil  and  indorsed  as  coming  from  General 


158  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

Leman,   Prisoner  of  War  at  Magdeburg,   Germany. 

The  letter  was  a  soldier's  simple  letter,  written  to 
a  friend.  I  wish  I  had  made  a  copy  of  it;  but  I  re- 
member in  effect  what  it  said.  Clearly  the  hero  of 
Liege  has  no  idea  that  he  is  a  hero.  He  said  he  had 
a  good  German  doctor,  but  that  he  had  been  very  ill. 
It  is  known,  of  course,  that  his  foot  was  injured  dur- 
ing the  destruction  of  one  of  the  fortresses  just  before 
he  was  captured. 

"I  have  a  very  good  German  doctor,"  he  wrote. 
"But  my  foot  gives  me  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  Gan- 
grene set  in  and  part  of  it  had  to  be  amputated.  The 
wound  refuses  to  heal,  and  in  addition  my  heart  is 
bad." 

He  goes  on  to  ask  for  his  family,  for  news  of  them, 
especially  of  his  daughter.  I  saw  this  letter  in  March. 
He  had  been  taken  a  prisoner  the  previous  August. 
He  had  then  been  seven  or  eight  months  without  news 
of  his  family. 

"I  am  no  longer  young,"  he  wrote  in  effect,  for 
I  am  not  quoting  him  exactly,  "and  I  hope  my  friends 
will  not  forget  me,  in  case  of  an  exchange  of  prison- 
ers." 

He  will  never  be  forgotten.  But  of  course  he  does 
not  realise  that.  He  is  sixty-four  and  very  ill.  One 
read  through  all  the  restraint  of  the  letter  his  longing 
to  die  among  his  own  people.  He  hopes  he  will  not 
be  forgotten  in  an  exchange  of  prisoners! 

The  Commandant's  orderly  announced  that  coffee 
was  served,  and  we  followed  the  lamp  across  the  hall. 
An  English  officer  made  a  fourth  at  the  table. 

It  was  good  coffee,  served  with  cream,  the  first 
I  had  seen  for  weeks.  With  it  the  Commandant 
served  small,  very  thin  cakes,  with  a  layer  of  Jioney 


LADY  DECIES'  STORY  159 

in  the  centre.     "A  specialty  of  the  country,"  he  said. 

We  talked  of  many  things :  of  the  attitude  of  Amer- 
ica toward  the  war,  her  incredulity  as  to  atrocities, 
the  German  propaganda,  and  a  rumour  that  had 
reached  the  front  of  a  German-Irish  coalition  in  the 
House  of  Representatives  at  Washington. 

From  that  the  talk  drifted  to  uniforms.  The  Com- 
mandant wished  that  the  new  French  uniforms,  in- 
stead of  being  a  slaty  blue,  had  been  green,  for  use 
in  the  spring  fighting. 

I  criticised  the  new  Belgian  uniform,  which  seemed 
to  me  much  thinner  than  the  old. 

"That  is  wrong.  It  is  of  excellent  cloth,"  said  the 
General,  and  brought  his  cape  up  under  the  lamp  for 
examination. 

The  uniforms  of  three  armies  were  at  the  table — » 
the  French,  the  Belgian  and  the  English.  It  was  pos- 
sible to  compare  them  under  the  light  of  a  single 
lamp. 

The  General's  cloak,  in  spite  of  my  criticism,  was 
the  heaviest  of  the  three.  But  all  of  them  seemed 
excellent.  The  material  was  like  felt  in  body,  but 
much  softer. 

All  of  the  officers  were  united  in  thinking  khaki 
an  excellent  all-round  colour. 

"The  Turcos  have  been  put  into  khaki,"  said  the 
Commandant.  "They  disliked  it  at  first;  but  their 
other  costumes  were  too  conspicuous.  Now  they  are 
satisfied." 

The  Englishman  offered  the  statement  that  Eng- 
land was  supplying  all  of  the  Allies,  including  Russia, 
with  cloth. 

Sitting  round  the  table  under  the  lamp,  the  Com- 
mandant read  a  postcard  taken  from  the  body  of  a 


160  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

dead  German  in  the  attack  the  night  before.  There 
was  a  photograph  with  it,  autographed.  The  photo- 
graph was  of  the  woman  who  had  written  the  card. 
It  began  "Beloved  Otto,"  and  was  signed  "Your  lov- 
ing wife,  Hedwig." 
This  is  the  postcard: 

"Beloved  Otto:  To-day  your  dear  cards  came,  so 
full  of  anxiety  for  us.  So  that  now  at  last  I  know 
that  you  have  received  my  letters.  I  was  convinced 
you  had  not.  We  have  sent  you  so  many  packages  of 
things  you  may  need.  Have  you  got  any  of  them? 
To-day  I  have  sent  you  my  photograph.  I  wished 
to  send  a  letter  also  instead  of  this  card,  but  I  have 
no  writing  paper.  All  week  I  have  been  busy  with 
the  children's  clothing.  We  think  of  you  always, 
dear  Otto.  Write  to  us  often.  Greetings  from  your 
Hedwig  and  the  children." 

So  she  was  making  clothing  for  the  children  and 
sending  him  little  packages.  And  Otto  lay  dead  under 
the  stars  that  night — dead  of  an  ideal,  which  is  that 
a  man  must  leave  his  family  and  all  that  he  loves  and 
follow  the  beckoning  finger  of  empire. 

"For  king  and  country!" 

The  Commandant  said  that  when  a  German  soldier 
surrenders  he  throws  down  his  gun,  takes  off  his  hel- 
met and  jerks  off  his  shoulder  straps,  saying  over  and 
over,  "Pater  famttias."  Sometimes,  by  way  of  em- 
phasising that  he  is  a  family  man,  he  holds  up  his 
fingers — two  children  or  three  children,  whatever  it 
may  be.  Even  boys  in  their  teens  will  claim  huge 
families. 

I  did  not  find  it  amusing  after  the  postcard  and 


LADY  DECIES'  STORY  161 

the  photograph.  I  found  it  all  very  tragic  and  sad 
and  disheartening. 

It  was  growing  late  and  the  General  was  impatient 
to  be  off.  We  had  still  a  long  journey  ahead  of  us, 
and  riding  at  night  was  not  particularly  safe. 

I  got  into  the  car  and  they  bundled  in  after  mt 
the  damaged  pictures,  the  horseshoe,  the  piece  of  gar- 
goyle from  the  Cloth  Hall  and  the  nose  of  the  shell. 

The  orderly  reported  that  a  Zeppelin  had  just 
passed  overhead;  but  the  General  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. 

"They  are  always  seeing  Zeppelins,"  he  said.  "Me, 
I  do  not  believe  there  is  such  a  thing!" 

That  night  in  my  hotel,  after  dinner,  Gertrude,  Lady 
Decies,  told  me  the  following  story: 

"I  had  only  twelve  hours'  notice  to  start  for  the 
front.  I  am  not  a  hospital  nurse,  but  I  have  taken 
for  several  years  three  months  each  summer  of  spe- 
cial training.  So  I  felt  that  I  would  be  useful  if  I 
could  get  over. 

"It  was  November  and  very  cold.  When  I  got 
to  Calais  there  was  not  a  room  to  be  had  anywhere. 
But  at  the  Hotel  Centrale  they  told  me  I  might  have 
a  bathroom  to  sleep  in. 

"At  the  last  moment  a  gentleman  volunteered  to 
exchange  with  me.  But  the  next  day  he  left,  so  that 
night  I  slept  in  a  bathtub  with  a  mattress  in  itf 

"The  following  day  I  got  a  train  for  Dunkirk.  On 
the  way  the  train  was  wrecked.  Several  coaches  left 
the  track,  and  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  wait 
until  they  were  put  back  on. 

"I  went  to  the  British  Consul  at  Dunkirk  and  asked 


162  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

him  where  I  could  be  most  useful.  He  said  to  go 
to  the  railroad  station  at  once. 

"I  went  to  the  station.  The  situation  there  was  hor- 
rible. Three  doctors  and  seven  dressers  were  working 
,on  four-hour  shifts. 

"As  the  wounded  came  in  only  at  night,  that  was 
when  we  were  needed.  I  worked  all  night  from  that 
time  on.  My  first  night  we  had  eleven  hundred  men. 
Some  of  them  were  dead  when  they  were  lifted  out 
onto  the  stone  floor  of  the  station  shed.  One  boy 
flung  himself  out  of  the  door.  I  caught  him  as  he 
fell  and  he  died  in  my  arms.  He  had  diphtheria, 
as  well  as  being  wounded. 

"The  station  was  frightfully  cold,  and  the  men 
had  to  be  laid  on  the  stone  floors  with  just  room  for 
moving  about  between  them.  There  was  no  heat  of 
any  sort.  The  dead  were  laid  in  rows,  one  on  top 
of  another,  on  cattle  trucks.  As  fast  as  a  man  died 
they  took  his  body  away  and  brought  in  another 
wounded  man. 

"Every  now  and  then  the  electric  lights  would  go 
out  and  leave  us  there  in  black  darkness.  Finally  we 
got  candles  and  lamps  for  emergencies. 

"We  had  no  surgical  dressings,  but  we  had  some 
iodine.  The  odours  were  fearful.  Some  of  the  men 
had  not  had  their  clothes  off  for  five  weeks.  Their 
garments  were  like  boards.  It  was  almost  impossible 
to  cut  through  them.  And  underneath  they  were 
coated  with  vermin.  Their  bodies  were  black  with 
them  frequently. 

"In  many  cases  the  wounds  were  green  through  lack 
of  attention.  One  man,  I  remember,  had  fifteen. 
The  first  two  nights  I  was  there  we  had  no  water, 
which  made  it  terrible.  There  was  a  pump  outside, 


LADY  DECIES'  STORY  163 

but  the  water  was  bad.  At  last  we  had  a  little  stove 
set  up,  and  I  got  some  kettles  and  jugs  and  boiled 
the  water. 

"We  were  obliged  to  throw  the  bandages  in  a  heap 
on  the  floor,  and  night  after  night  we  walked  about 
in  blood.  My  clothing  and  stockings  were  stained 
with  blood  to  my  knees. 

"After  the  first  five  nights  I  kept  no  record  of 
the  number  of  wounded;  but  the  first  night  we  had 
eleven  hundred;  the  second  night,  nine  hundred;  the 
third  night,  seven  hundred  and  fifty ;  the  fourth  night, 
two  thousand ;  the  fifth  night,  fifteen  hundred. 

"The  men  who  were  working  at  the  station  were 
English  Quakers.  They  were  splendid  men.  I  have 
never  known  more  heroic  work  than  they  did,  and  the 
cure  was  a  splendid  fellow.  There  was  nothing  too 
menial  for  him  to  do.  He  was  everywhere." 

This  is  the  story  she  told  me  that  night,  in  her 
own  words.  I  have  not  revised  it.  Better  than  any- 
thing I  know  it  tells  of  conditions  as  they  actually 
existed  during  the  hard  fighting  of  the  first  autumn 
of  the  war,  and  as  in  the  very  nature  of  things  they 
must  exist  again  whenever  either  side  undertakes  an 
offensive. 

It  becomes  a  little  wearying,  sometimes,  this  con- 
stant cry  of  horrors,  the  ever-recurring  demands  on 
America's  pocketbook  for  supplies,  for  dressings,  for 
money  to  buy  the  thousands  of  things  that  are  needed. 

Read  Lady  Decies'  account  again,  and  try  to  place 
your  own  son  on  that  stone  floor  on  the  station  plat- 
form. Think  of  that  wounded  boy,  sitting  for  hours 
in  a  train,  and  choking  to  death  with  diphtheria. 

This  is  the  thing  we  call  war. 


FROM  MY  JOURNAL  written  during  an  attack  of  in- 
fluenza at  the  Gare  Maritime  in  Calais: 

T  AST  night  I  left  England  on  the  first  boat  to 
•*— '  cross  the  Channel  after  the  blockade.  I  left 
London  at  midnight,  with  the  usual  formality  of  being 
searched  by  Scotland  Yard  detectives.  The  train  was 
empty  and  very  cold. 

"At  half-past  two  in  the  morning  we  reached 
Folkestone.  I  was  quite  alone,  and  as  I  stood  shiver- 
ing on  the  quay  waiting  to  have  my  papers  examined 
a  cold  wind  from  the  harbour  and  a  thin  spray  of 
rain  made  the  situation  wretched.  At  last  I  con- 
fronted the  inspector,  and  was  told  that  under  the 
new  regulations  I  should  have  had  my  Red  Cross  card 
viseed  in  Paris.  It  was  given  back  to  me  with  a  shrug, 
but  my  passport  was  stamped. 

"There  were  four  men  round  the  table.  My  papers 
and  I  were  inspected  by  each  of  the  four  in  turn. 
At  last  I  was  through.  But  to  my  disgust  I  found 
I  was  not  to  be  allowed  on  the  Calais  boat.  There 
was  one  going  to  Boulogne  and  carrying  passengers, 
but  Calais  was  closed  up  tight,  except  to  troops  and 
officers. 

"I  looked  at  the  Boulogne  boat.  It  was  well  lighted 

164 


RUNNING  THE  BLOCKADE  165 

and  cheerful.  Those  few  people  who  had  come  down 
from  London  on  the  train  were  already  settling  them- 
selves for  the  crossing.  They  were  on  their  way  to 
Paris  and  peace. 

"I  did  not  want  Paris  and  certainly  I  did  not  want 
peace.  I  had  telegraphed  to  Dunkirk  and  expected 
a  military  car  to  meet  me  at  Calais.  Once  across,  I 
knew  J  could  neither  telegraph  nor  telephone  to  Dun- 
kirk, all  lines  of  communication  being  closed  to  the 
public.  I  felt  that  I  might  be  going  to  be  ill.  I  would 
not  be  ill  in  Boulogne. 

"At  the  end  of  the  quay,  dark  and  sinister,  loomed 
the  Calais  boat.  I  had  one  moment  of  indecision. 
Then  I  picked  up  my  suitcase  and  started  toward  it 
in  the  rain.  Luckily  the  gangway  was  out.  I  boarded 
the  boat  with  as  much  assurance  as  I  could  muster, 
and  was  at  once  accosted  by  the  chief  officer. 

"I  produced  my  papers.  Some  of  them  were  very 
impressive.  There  were  letters  from  the  French  Am- 
bassador in  London,  Monsieur  Cambon,  to  leading 
French  generals.  There  was  a  letter  to  Sir  John 
French  and  another  letter  expediting  me  through  the 
customs,  but  unluckily  the  customs  at  Boulogne. 

"They  left  him  cold.  I  threw  myself  on  his  mercy. 
He  apologised,  but  continued  firm.  The  Boulogne 
boat  drew  in  its  gangway.  I  mentioned  this,  and 
that,  so  to  speak,  I  had  burned  my  Boulogne  gang- 
way behind  me.  I  said  I  had  just  had  an  interview 
with  Mr.  Winston  Churchill,  and  that  I  felt  sure  the 
First  Lord  of  the  Admiralty  would  not  approve  of  my 
standing  there  arguing  when  I  was  threatened  with 
influenza.  He  acted  as  though  he  had  never  heard 
of  the  First  Lord. 

"At  last  he  was  called  away.     So  I  went  into  a 


i66  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

deck  cabin,  and  closed  and  bolted  the  door.  I  re- 
member that,  and  that  I  put  a  life  preserver  over  my 
feet,  in  case  of  a  submarine,  and  my  fur  coat  over  the 
rest  of  me,  because  of  a  chill.  And  that  is  all  I  do  re- 
member, until  this  morning  in  a  grey,  rainy  dawn 
I  opened  the  door  to  find  that  we  were  entering  the 
harbour  of  Calais.  If  the  officers  of  the  boat  were 
surprised  to  see  me  emerge  they  concealed  it.  No 
doubt  they  knew  that  with  Calais  under  military  law 
I  could  hardly  slip  through  the  fingers  of  the  police. 

"This  morning  I  have  a  mild  attack  of  what  the 
English  call  'flu.'  I  am  still  at  the  hotel  in  Calais. 
I  have  breakfasted  to  the  extent  of  hot  coffee,  have 
taken  three  different  kinds  of  influenza  remedies,  and 
am  now  waiting  and  aching,  but  at  least  I  am  in, 
France. 

"If  the  car  from  Dunkirk  does  not  come  for  me 
to-day  I  shall  be  deported  to-night. 

"Two  torpedo  boats  are  coaling  in  the  harbor., 
,They  have  two  large  white  letters  which  answer  for 
their  names.  One  is  the  BE;  the  other  is  the  ER.. 
As  they  lie  side  by  side  these  tall  white  letters  spell 
B-E-E-R. 

"I  have  heard  an  amusing  thing:  that  the  English 
have  built  duplicates  of  all  their  great  battleships, 
building  them  of  wood,  guns  and  all,  over  the  hulls, 
of  other  vessels;  and  that  the  Germans  have  done'< 
the  same  thing!     What  would  happen  if  one  of  the 
'dummy'  fleets  met  the  other?    Would  it  be  a  battle 
of  expletives  ?    Would  the  German  consonant  triumph 
over  the  English  aspirate,  and  both  ships  go  down  in 
a  sea  of  language? 

"The  idea  is,  of  course,  to  delude  submarines  into 
the  belief  that  they  are  sinking  battleships,  while  the 


RUNNING  THE  BLOCKADE  167 

real  dreadnoughts  are  somewhere  else — pure  strategy, 
but  amusing,  except  for  the  crews  of  these  sham  war 
flotillas." 

The  French  Ambassador  in  London  had  given  me 
letters  to  the  various  generals  commanding  the  divi- 
sions of  the  French  Army. 

It  was  realised  that  America  knew  very  little  of 
what  the  French  were  doing  in  this  great  war.  We 
knew,  of  course,  that  they  were  holding  a  tremendous 
battle  line  and  that  they  were  fighting  bravely.  Ru- 
mours we  had  heard  of  the  great  destruction  done 
by  the  French  seventy-five  millimetre  gun,  and  the 
names  of  numerous  towns  had  become  familiar  to  us 
in  print,  even  when  we  could  not  pronounce  them. 
The  Paris  omnibuses  had  gone  to  the  front.  Paris 
fashions  were  late  in  coming  to  us,  and  showed  a  mili- 
tary trend.  For  the  first  time  the  average  American 
knew  approximately  where  and  what  Alsace-Lorraine 
is,  and  that  Paris  has  forts  as  well  as  shops  and  ho- 
tels. 

But  what  else  did  we  know  of  France  and  its  part 
in  the  war?  What  does  America  generally  know  of 
France,  outside  of  Paris?  Very  little.  Since  my  re- 
turn, almost  the  only  question  I  have  been  asked  about 
'France  is:  "Is  Paris  greatly  changed?" 

Yet  America  owes  much  to  her  great  sister  repub- 
lic; much  encouragement  in  the  arts,  in  literature,  in 
research.  For  France  has  always  extended  a  kindly 
hand  and  a  splendid  welcome  to  gifted  and  artistic 
Americans.  But  her  encouragement  neither  begins 
nor  ends  there. 

It  was  in  France  that  American  statesmen  received 
the  support  that  enabled  them  to  rear  the  new  re- 


168  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

public  on  strong  and  sturdy  foundations.  It  is  curi- 
ous to  think  of  that  France  of  Louis  the  Sixteenth, 
with  its  every  tradition  opposed  to  the  democracy 
for  which  America  was  contending,  sending  the  very 
flower  of  her  chivalry  to  assist  the  new  republic.  It 
is  amazing  to  remember  that  when  France  was  in  a 
deplorable  condition  financially  it  was  yet  found 
possible  to  lend  America  six  million  dollars,  and 
to  exempt  us  from  the  payment  of  interest  for  a 
year. 

And  the  friendship  of  France  was  of  the  people,  not 
alone  of  the  king,  for  it  survived  the  downfall  of 
the  monarchy  and  the  rise  of  the  French  Republic. 
When  Benjamin  Franklin  died  the  National  Assembly 
at  Paris  went  into  three  days'  mourning  for  "the  great 
American." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  France's  help  to  America  pre- 
cipitated her  own  great  crisis.  The  Declaration  of  In- 
dependence was  the  spark  that  set  her  ablaze.  If  the 
king  was  right  in  America  he  was  utterly  wrong  at 
home.  Lafayette  went  back  from  America  convinced 
that  "resistance  is  the  most  sacred  of  duties." 

The  French  adopted  the  American  belief  that  lib- 
erty is  the  object  of  government,  and  liberty  of  the 
individual — that  very  belief  which  France  is  stand- 
ing for  to-day  as  opposed  to  the  nationalism  of  Ger- 
many. The  Frenchman  believes,  like  the  American, 
that  pressure  should  be  from  within  out,  not  from 
without  in.  In  other  words,  his  own  conscience,  and 
not  the  arbitrary  ruling  of  an  arbitrary  government, 
is  his  dictator.  To  reconcile  liberty  and  democracy, 
then,  has  been  France's  problem,  as  it  has  been  that 
of  America.  She  has  faced  the  same  problems  against 
a  handicap  that  America  has  not  had — the  handicap 


RUNNING  THE  BLOCKADE  169 

of  a  discontented  nobility.  And  by  sheer  force  and 
determination  France  has  won. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  French  in  their  Revolu- 
tion were  not  reckless  innovators.  They  were  con- 
fiding followers.  And  the  star  they  followed  was 
the  same  star  which,  multiplied  by  the  number  of 
states,  is  the  American  flag  to-day — Liberty. 

Because  of  the  many  ties  between  the  two  coun- 
tries, I  had  urged  on  the  French  Ambassador  the 
necessity  of  letting  America  know  a  little  more  inti- 
mately what  was  being  done  by  the  French  in  this 
war.  Since  that  time  a  certain  relaxation  has  taken 
place  along  all  the  Allied  lines.  Correspondents  have 
been  taken  out  on  day  excursions  and  have  cabled 
to  America  what  they  saw.  But  at  the  time  I  visited 
the  French  Army  of  the  North  there  had  been  no 
one  there. 

Those  Americans  who  had  seen  the  French  soldier 
in  times  of  peace  had  not  been  greatly  impressed.  His 
curious,  bent-kneed,  slouching  step,  so  carefully  taught 
him — so  different  from  the  stately  progress  of  the 
British,  for  instance,  but  so  effective  in  covering 
ground — his  loose  trousers  and  huge  pack,  all  con- 
spire against  the  ensemble  effect  of  French  soldiers  on 
the  march. 

I  have  seen  British  regiments  at  ease,  British  sol- 
diers at  rest  and  in  their  billets.  Always  they  are 
smart,  always  they  are  military.  A  French  regiment 
at  ease  ceases  to  be  a  part  of  a  great  machine.  It 
shows,  perhaps,  more  humanity.  The  men  let  their 
muscles  sag  a  bit.  They  talk,  laugh,  sing  if  they  are 
happy.  They  lie  about  in  every  attitude  of  complete 
relaxation.  But  at  the  word  they  fall  in  again.  They 
take  up  the  slack,  as  it  were,  and  move  on  again  in 


170  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

that  remarkable  pas  de  flexion  that  is  so  oddly  tire- 
less. It  is  a  difference  of  method;  probably  the  best 
thing  for  men  who  are  Gallic,  temperamental.  A  more 
lethargic  army  is  better  governed  probably  by  rule 
of  thumb. 

I  had  crossed  the  Channel  again  to  see  the  French 
and  English  lines.  On  my  previous  visit,  which  had 
lasted  for  several  weeks,  I  had  seen  the  Belgian  Army 
at  the  front  and  the  French  Army  in  billets  and  on 
reserve.  This  time  I  was  to  see  the  French  Army  in 
action. 

The  first  step  to  that  end,  getting  out  of  Calais, 
proved  simple  enough.  The  car  came  from  Dunkirk, 
and  brought  passes.  I  took  more  influenza  medicine, 
dressed  and  packed  my  bag.  There  was  some  little 
regret  mingled  with  my  farewell  to  the  hotel  at  the 
Gare  Maritime.  I  had  had  there  a  private  bath,  with 
a  porcelain  tub.  More  than  that,  the  tub  had  been 
made  in  my  home  city.  It  was,  I  knew,  my  last 
glimpse  of  a  porcelain  tub,  probably  of  any  tub,  for 
some  time.  There  were  bath  towels  also.  I  wondered 
if  I  would  ever  see  a  bath  towel  again.  I  left  a  cake 
of  soap  in  that  bathroom.  I  can  picture  its  next  oc- 
cupant walking  in,  calm  and  deliberate,  and  then  his 
eye  suddenly  falling  on  a  cake  of  soap.  I  can  picture 
his  stare,  his  incredulity.  I  can  see  him  rushing  to 
the  corridor  and  ringing  the  fire  bell  and  calling  the 
other  guests  and  the  strangers  without  the  gates,  and 
the  boot  boy  in  an  apron,  to  come  and  see  that  cake 
of  soap. 

But  not  the  management.  They  would  take  it 
away. 

The  car  which  came  for  me  had  been  at  the  front 
all  night.  It  was  filled  inside  and  out  with  mud, 


RUNNING  THE  BLOCKADE  171 

so  that  it  was  necessary  to  cover  the  seat  before  I 
got  in.  Of  all  the  cars  I  have  ever  travelled  in,  this 
was  the  most  wrecked.  Hardly  a  foot  of  the  metal 
body  was  unbroken  by  shell  or  bullet  hole.  The  wind 
shield  had  been  torn  away.  Tatters  of  curtain 
streamed  out  in  the  wind.  The  mud  guards  were 
bent  and  twisted.  Even  in  that  region  of  wrecked 
cars  people  turned  to  look  at  it. 

Calais  was  very  gay  that  Sunday  afternoon.  The 
sun  was  out.  At  the  end  of  the  drawbridge  a  soldier 
was  exercising  a  captured  German  horse. 

Officers  in  scarlet  and  gold,  in  pale  blue,  in  green 
and  red,  in  all  the  picturesqueness  of  a  Sunday  back 
from  the  front,  were  decked  for  the  public  eye.  They 
walked  in  groups  or  singly.  There  were  no  women 
with  them.  Their  wives  and  sweethearts  were  far 
away.  A  Sunday  in  Calais,  indifferent  food  at  a  hotel, 
a  saunter  in  the  sunlight,  and  then — Monday  and 
war  again,  with  the  bright  colours  replaced  by  som- 
bre ones,  with  mud  and  evil  odours  and  wretched- 
ness. 

They  wandered  about,  smoking  eternal  cigarettes 
and  watching  the  harbour,  where  ships  were  coaling, 
and  where,  as  my  car  waited,  the  drawbridge  opened 
to  allow  a  great  Norwegian  merchantman  to  pass. 
The  blockade  was  only  two  days  old,  but  already  this 
'Norwegian  boat  had  her  name  painted  in  letters  ten 
feet  high  along  each  side  of  her  hull,  flanked  on  both 
sides  by  the  Norwegian  flag,  also  painted.  Her  crew, 
leaning  over  the  side,  surveyed  the  quay  curiously. 
So  this  was  war — this  petulant  horse  with  its  soldier 
rider,  these  gay  uniforms! 

It  had  been  hoped  that  neutral  shipping  would,  by 
thus  indicating  clearly  its  nationality,  escape  the  at- 


172  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

tacks  of  submarines.     That  very  ship  was  sunk  three 
days  later  in  the  North  Sea. 

Convalescent  soldiers  limped  about  on  crutches; 
babies  were  wheeled  in  perambulators  in  the  sun;  a 
group  of  young  aviators  in  black  leather  costumes 
watched  a  French  biplane  flying  low.  English  naval ' 
officers  from  the  coaling  boats  took  shore  leave  and 
walked  along  with  the  free  English  stride. 

There  were  no  guns;  everything  was  gaiety  and 
brightness.  But  for  the  limping  soldiers,  my  own 
battered  machine,  and  the  ominous  grey  ships  in  the 
harbour,  it  might  have  been  a  carnival. 

In  spite  of  the  appearance  of  the  machine  it  went 
northeast  at  an  incredible  pace,  its  dried  mud  flying 
off  like  missiles,  through  those  French  villages,  which 
are  so  tidy  because  there  is  nothing  to  waste;  where 
there  is  just  enough  and  no  more — no  extra  paper, 
no  extra  string,  or  food,  or  tin  cans,  or  any  of  the 
litter  that  goes  to  make  the  disorder  of  a  wasteful 
American  town;  where  paper  and  string  and  tin  cans 
and  old  boots  serve  their  original  purpose  and  then, 
in  the  course  of  time,  become  flower-pots  or  rag  car- 
pets or  soup  meat,  or  heaven  knows  what ;  and  where, 
having  fulfilled  this  second  destiny,  they  go  on  being 
useful  in  feeding  chickens,  or  repairing  roads,  or  fer- 
tilising fields. 

For  the  first  time  on  this  journey  I  encountered 
difficulty  with  the  sentries.  My  Red  Cross  card  had 
lost  its  potency.  A  new  rule  had  gone  out  that  even 
a  staff  car  might  not  carry  a  woman.  Things  looked 
very  serious  for  a  time.  But  at  last  we  got  through. 

There  were  many  aviators  out  that  bright  day, 
going  to  the  front,  returning,  or  merely  flying  about 
taking  the  air.  Women  walked  along  the  roads  wear- 


RUNNING  THE  BLOCKADE  173 

ing  bright-coloured  silk  aprons.  Here  and  there  the 
sentries  had  stretched  great  chains  across  the  road, 
against  which  the  car  brought  up  sharply.  And  then 
at  last  Dunkirk  again,  and  the  royal  apartment,  and 
a  soft  bed,  and — influenza. 

Two  days  later  I  started  for  the  French  lines.  I 
packed  a  small  bag,  got  out  a  fresh  notebook,  and, 
having  received  the  proper  passes,  the  start  was  made 
early  in  the  morning.  An  officer  was  to  take  me  to 
the  headquarters  of  the  French  Army  of  the  North. 
From  there  I  was  to  proceed  to  British  headquarters. 

My  previous  excursions  from  Dunkirk  had  all  been 
made  east  and  southeast.  This  new  route  was  south. 
As  far  as  the  town  of  Bergues  we  followed  the  route 
by  which  I  had  gone  to  Ypres.  Bergues,  a  little  for- 
tified town,  has  been  at  times  owned  by  the  French, 
English,  Spanish  and  Dutch. 

It  is  odd,  remembering  the  new  alignment  of  the 
nations,  to  see  erected  in  the  public  square  a  monu- 
ment celebrating  the  victory  of  the  French  over  the 
English  in  1793,  a  victory  which  had  compelled  the 
British  to  raise  the  siege  of  Dunkirk. 

South  of  Bergues  there  was  no  sign  of  war.  The 
peasants  rode  along  the  road  in  their  high,  two- 
wheeled  carts  with  bare  iron  hoops  over  the  top,  hoops 
over  which  canvas  is  spread  in  wet  weather. 

There  were  trees  again;  windmills  with  their  great 
wings  turning  peacefully;  walled  gardens  and  way- 
side shrines;  holly  climbing  over  privet  hedges;  and 
rows  of  pollard  willows,  their  early  buds  a  reddisli 
brown ;  and  tall  Lombardy  poplars,  yellow-green  with 
spring. 

The  road  stretched  straight  ahead,  a  silver  line. 
Nothing  could  have  been  more  peaceful,  more  unwar- 


174  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

like.  Peasants  trudged  along  with  heavy  milk  cans 
hanging  from  wooden  neck  yokes,  chickens  flew 
squawking  from  the  onslaught  of  the  car.  There 
were  sheep  here  and  there. 

"It  is  forbidden  to  take  or  kill  a  sheep — except  in 
self-defence!"  said  the  officer. 

And  then  suddenly  we  turned  into  a  small  town 
and  came  on  hundreds  of  French  omnibuses,  requi- 
sitioned from  all  parts  of  France  and  painted  a  dingy 
grey. 

Out  of  the  town  again.  The  road  rose  now  to  Cas- 
sel,  with  its  three  windmills  in  a  row  on  the  top  of 
a  hill.  We  drove  under  an  arch  of  trees,  their  trunks 
covered  with  moss.  On  each  side  of  the  highway 
peasants  were  ploughing  in  the  mud — old  peasants, 
bent  to  the  plough,  or  very  young  boys,  who  eyed 
us  without  curiosity. 

Still  south.  But  now  there  were  motor  ambulances 
and  an  occasional  long  line  of  motor  lorries.  At  one 
place  in  a  village  we  came  on  a  great  three-ton  lorry, 
driven  and  manned  by  English  Tommies.  They  knew 
no  French  and  were  completely  lost  in  a  foreign  land. 
But  they  were  beautifully  calm.  They  sat  on  the 
driving  seat  and  smoked  pipes  and  derided  each  other, 
as  in  turn  they  struggled  to  make  their  difficulty 
known. 

"Bailleul,"  said  the  Tommies  over  and  over,  but 
they  pronounced  it  "Berlue,"  and  the  villagers  only 
laughed. 

The  officer  in  the  car  explained. 

"  'Berlue,' "  he  said,  "is — what  do  you  Americans 
say — dotty?  They  are  telling  the  villagers  they  want 
to  go  crazy!" 

So  he  got  out  and  explained.     Also  he  found  out 


RUNNING  THE  BLOCKADE  175 

their  road  for  them  and  sent  them  off,  rather  sheepish, 
but  laughing. 

"I  never  get  over  the  surprises  of  this  war,"  said- 
the  officer  when  he  returned.  "Think  of  those  boys, 
with  not  a  word  of  French,  taking  that  lorry  from 
the  coast  to  the  English  lines!  They'll  get  there  too. 
They  always  do." 

As  we  left  the  flat  land  toward  the  coast  the  coun- 
try grew  more  and  more  beautiful.  It  rolled  gently 
and  there  were  many  trees. 

The  white  houses  with  their  low  thatched  rooTs, 
which  ended  in  a  bordering  of  red  tiles,  looked  pros- 
perous. But  there  were  soldiers  again.  We  were 
approaching  the  war  zone. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
THE  MAN  OF  YPRES 


THE  sun  was  high  when  we  reached  the  little 
town  where  General  Foch,  Commander  of  the 
Annies  of  the  North,  had  his  headquarters.  It  was 
not  difficult  to  find  the  building.  The  French  flag 
furled  at  the  doorway,  a  gendarme  at  one  side  of 
the  door  and  a  sentry  at  the  other,  denoted  the  head- 
quarters of  the  staff.  But  General  Foch  was  not 
there  at  the  momenf.  He  had  gone  to  church. 

The  building  was  near.  Thinking  that  there  might 
be  a  service,  I  decided  to  go  also.  Going  up  a  steep 
street  to  where  at  the  top  stood  a  stone  church,  with 
an  image  of  the  Christ  almost  covered  by  that  virgin 
vine  which  we  call  Virginia  creeper,  I  opened  the 
leather-covered  door  and  went  quietly  in. 

There  was  no  service.  The  building  was  quite 
empty.  And  the  Commander  of  the  Armies  of  the 
North,  probably  the  greatest  general  the  French  have 
in  the  field  to-day,  was  kneeling  there  alone. 

He  never  knew  I  had  seen  him.  I  left  before  he 
did.  Now,  as  I  look  back,  it  seems  to  me  that  that 
great  general  on  his  knees  alone  in  that  little  church 
is  typical  of  the  attitude  of  France  to-day  toward  the 
war. 

It  is  a  totally  different  attitude  from  the  English 
— not  more  heroic,  not  braver,  not  more  resolute  to 

176 


THE  MAN  OF  YPRES  177 

an  end.  But  it  is  peculiarly  reverential.  The  enemy 
is  on  the  soil  of  France.  The  French  are  fighting  for 
their  homes,  for  their  children,  for  their  country. 
And  in  this  great  struggle  France  daily,  hourly,  on 
its  knees  asks  for  help. 

I  went  to  the  hotel — an  ancient  place,  very  small,  < 
very  clean,  very  cold  and  shabby.  The  entrance  was 
through  an  archway  into  a  cobble-paved  courtyard, 
where  on  the  left,  under  the  roof  of  a  shed,  the  sad- 
dles of  cavalry  horses  and  gendarmes  were  waiting  on 
saddle  trestles.  Beyond,  through  a  glazed  door,  was 
a  long  dining  room,  with  a  bare,  white-scrubbed  floor 
and  whitewashed  walls.  Its  white  table-cloths,  white 
walls  and  ceiling  and  white  floor,  with  no  hint  of  fire, 
although  a  fine  snow  had  commenced  to  fall,  set  me 
to  shivering.  Even  the  attempt  at  decoration  of  hang- 
ing baskets,  of  trailing  vines  with  strings  of  red  pep- 
pers, was  hardly  cheering. 

From  the  window  a  steep,  walled  garden  fell  away, 
dreary  enough  under  the  grey  sky  and  the  snowfall. 
The  same  curious  pale-green  moss  covered  the  trees, 
and  beyond  the  garden  wall,  in  a  field,  was  a  hole 
where  a  German  aeroplane  had  dropped  a  bomb. 

Hot  coffee  had  been  ordered,  and  we  went  into  a 
smaller  room  for  it.    Here  there  was  a  fire,  with  four 
French  soldiers  gathered  round  it.    One  of  them  was 
writing  at  the  table.     The  others  were  having  their ' 
palms  read. 

"You  have  a  heart  line,"  said  the  palmist  to  one 
of  them — "a  heart  line  like  a  windmill!" 

I  drank  my  coffee  and  listened.  I  could  under- 
stand only  a  part  of  it,  but  it  was  eminently  cheerful. 
They  laughed,  chaffed  each  other,  and  although  my 
presence  in  the  hotel  must  have  caused  much  curi- 


178  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

osity  in  that  land  of  no  women,  they  did  not  stare 
at  me.  Indeed,  it  was  I  who  did  the  gazing. 

After  a  time  I  was  given  a  room.  It  was  at  the 
end  of  a  whitewashed  corridor,  from  which  pine  doors 
opened  on  either  side  into  bedrooms.  The  corridor 
was  bare  of  carpet,  the  whole  upstairs  freezing  cold. 
There  were  none  of  the  amenities.  My  room  was  at 
the  end.  It  boasted  two  small  windows,  with  a  tiny 
stand  between  them  containing  a  tin  basin  and  a 
pitcher;  a  bed  with  one  side  of  the  mattress  torn 
open  and  exposing  a  heterogeneous  content  that  did 
not  bear  inspection ;  a  pine  chair,  a  candle  and  a  stove. 

They  called  it  a  stove.  It  had  a  coal  receptacle 
that  was  not  as  large  as  a  porridge  bowl,  and  one 
small  lump  of  coal,  pulverized,  was  all  it  held.  It  was 
lighted  with  a  handful  of  straw.  Turn  your  back 
and  count  ten,  and  it  was  out.  Across  the  foot  of 
the  bed  was  one  of  the  Continental  feather  comforts 
which  cover  only  one's  feet  and  let  the  rest  freeze. 

It  was  not  so  near  the  front  as  La  Panne,  but  the 
windows  rattled  incessantly  from  the  bombardment 
of  Ypres.  I  glanced  through  one  of  the  windows. 
The  red  tiles  I  had  grown  to  know  so  well  were  not 
in  evidence.  Most  of  the  roofs  were  blue,  a  weathered 
and  mottled  blue,  very  lovely,  but,  like  everything 
else  about  the  town,  exceedingly  cold  to  look  at. 

Shortly  after  I  had  unpacked  my  few  belongings  I 
was  presented  to  General  Foch,  not  at  headquarters, 
but  at  the  house  in  which  he  was  living.  He  came 
out  himself  to  meet  me,  attended  by  several  of  his 
officers,  and  asked  at  once  if  I  had  had  dejeuner.  I 
had  not,  so  he  invited  me  to  lunch  with  him  and  with 
his  staff. 

Dejeuner  was  ready  and  we  went  in  immediately* 


THE  MAN  OF  YPRES  179 

A  long  table  had  been  laid  for  fourteen.  General 
Foch  took  his  place  at  the  centre  of  one  of  the  long 
sides,  and  I  was  placed  in  the  seat  of  honour  directly 
across.  As  his  staff  is  very  large,  only  a  dozen 
officers  dine  with  him.  The  others,  juniors  in  the 
service,  are  billeted  through  the  town  and  have  a  sepa- 
rate mess. 

Sitting  where  I  did  I  had  a  very  good  opportunity 
to  see  the  hero  of  Ypres,  philosopher,  strategist  and 
theorist,  whose  theories  were  then  bearing  the  su- 
preme test  of  war. 

Erect,  and  of  distinguished  appearance,  General 
Foch  is  a  man  rather  past  middle  life,  with  heavy  ( 
iron-grey  hair,  rather  bushy  grey  eyebrows  and  a, 
moustache.  His  eyes  are  grey  and  extremely  direct. 
His  speech  incisive  and  rather  rapid. 

Although  some  of  the  staff  had  donned  the  new 
French  uniform  of  grey-blue,  the  general  wore  the 
old  uniform,  navy-blue,  the  only  thing  denoting  his 
rank  being  the  three  dull  steel  stars  on  the  embroidered 
sleeve  of  his  tunic. 

There  was  little  ceremony  at  the  meal.  The  staff  re- 
mained standing  until  General  Foch  and  I  were  seated. 
Then  they  all  sat  down  and  dejeuner  was  immediately 
served. 

One  of  the  staff  told  me  later  that  the  general  is 
extremely  punctilious  about  certain  things.  The  staff 
is  expected  to  be  in  the  dining  room  five  minutes  be- 
fore meals  are  served.  A  punctual  man  himself,  he 
expects  others  to  be  punctual.  The  table  must  al- 
ways be  the  epitome  of  neatness,  the  food  well  cooked 
and  quietly  served. 

Punctuality  and  neatness  no  doubt  are  due  to  his 
long  military  training,  for  General  Foch  has  always 


i8o  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

been  a  soldier.  Many  of  the  officers  of  France  owe 
their  knowledge  of  strategy  and  tactics  to  his  teaching 
at  the  ftcole  de  Guerre. 

General  Foch  led  the  conversation.  Owing  to  the 
rapidity  of  his  speech,  it  was  necessary  to  translate 
much  of  it  for  me.  We  spoke,  one  may  say,  through 
a  clearing  house.  But  although  he  knew  it  was  to  be 
translated  to  me,  he  spoke,  not  to  the  interpreter, 
but  to  me,  and  his  keen  eyes  watched  me  as  I  replied. 
And  I  did  not  interview  General  Foch.  General  Foch 
interviewed  me.  I  made  no  pretence  at  speaking  for 
America.  I  had  no  mission.  But  within  my  limita- 
tions I  answered  him  as  well  as  I  could. 

"There  are  many  ties  between  America  and  France," 
said  General  Foch.  "We  wish  America  to  know  what 
we  are  doing  over  here,  to  realise  that  this  terrible 
war  was  forced  on  us." 

I  mentioned  my  surprise  at  the  great  length  of 
the  French  line — more  than  four  hundred  miles. 

"You  do  not  know  that  in  America  ?"  he  asked,  evi- 
dently surprised. 

I  warned  him  at  once  not  to  judge  the  knowledge 
of  America  by  what  I  myself  knew,  that  no  doubt 
many  quite  understood  the  situation. 

"But  you  have  been  very  modest,"  I  said.  "We 
really  have  had  little  information  about  the  French 
Army  and  what  it  is  doing,  unless  more  news  is  going 
over  since  I  left." 

"We  are  more  modest  than  the  Germans,  then  ?" 

"You  are,  indeed.  There  are  several  millions  of 
German-born  Americans  who  are  not  likely  to  let 
America  forget  the  Fatherland.  There  are  many  Ger- 
man newspapers  also." 

"What  is  the  percentage  of  German  population?" 


THE  MAN  OF  YPRES  181 

I  told  him.  I  think  I  was  wrong.  I  think  I  made 
it  too  great.  But  I  had  not  expected  to  be  interviewed. 

"And  these  German  newspapers,  are  they  neutral  ?" 

"Not  at  all.    Very  far  from  it." 

I  told  him  what  I  knew  of  the  German  propaganda 
in  America,  and  he  listened  intently. 

"What  is  its  effect?  Is  it  influencing  public 
opinion  ?" 

"It  did  so  undeniably  for  a  time.  But  I  believe 
it  is  not  doing  so  much  now.  For  one  thing,  Ger- 
many's methods  on  the  sea  will  neutralise  all  her 
agents  can  say  in  her  favour — that  and  the  relaxa- 
tion of  the  restrictions  against  the  press,  so  that  some- 
thing can  be  known  of  what  the  Allies  are  doing." 

"You  have  known  very  little?" 

"Absurdly  little." 

There  was  some  feeling  in  my  tone,  and  he  smiled. 

"We  wish  to  have  America  know  the  splendid  spirit 
of  the  French  Army,"  he  said  after  a  moment.  "And 
the  justice  of  its  cause  also." 

I  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  the  future. 

"There  is  no  question  about  the  future,"  he  said 
with  decision.  "That  is  already  settled.  When  the 
German  advance  was  checked  it  was  checked  for 
good." 

"Then  you  do  not  believe  that  they  will  make  a 
further  advance  toward  Paris  ?" 

"Certainly  not" 

He  went  on  to  explain  the  details  of  the  battle 
of  the  Marne,  and  how  in  losing  that  battle  the  in- 
vading army  had  lost  everything. 

It  will  do  no  harm  to  digress  for  a  moment  and 
explain  exactly  what  the  French  did  at  the  battle  of 
the  Marne. 


182  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

All  through  August  the  Allies  fell  back  before  the 
onward  rush  of  the  Germans.  But  during  all  that 
strategic  retreat  plans  were  being  made  for  resum- 
ing the  offensive  again.  This  necessitated  an  orderly 
retreat,  not  a  rout,  with  constant  counter-engagements 
to  keep  the  invaders  occupied.  It  necessitated  also 
a  fixed  point  of  retreat,  to  be  reached  by  the  different 
Allied  armies  simultaneously. 

When,  on  September  fifth,  the  order  for  assuming 
the  offensive  was  given,  the  extreme  limit  of  the  re- 
treat had  not  yet  been  reached.  But  the  audacity  of 
the  German  march  had  placed  it  in  a  position  favour- 
able for  attack,  and  at  the  same  time  extremely  dan- 
gerous for  the  Allies  and  Paris  if  they  were  not 
checked. 

On  the  evening  of  September  fifth  General  Joffre 
sent  this  message  to  all  the  commanders  of  armies: 

"The  hour  has  come  to  advance  at  all  costs,  and 
'do  or  die  where  you  stand  rather  than  give  way." 

The  French  did  not  give  way.  Paris  was  saved 
after  a  colossal  battle,  in  which  more  than  two  mil- 
lion men  were  engaged.  The  army  commanded  by 
General  Foch  was  at  one  time  driven  back  by  over- 
whelming odds,  but  immediately  resumed  the  offen- 
sive, and  making  a  flank  attack  forced  the  Germans 
to  retreat. 

Not  that  he  mentioned  his  part  in  the  battle  of  the"* 
Marne.     Not  that  any  member  of  his  staff  so  much 
as  intimated  it.     But  these  are  things  that  get  back. 

"How  is  America  affected  by  the  war?" 

I  answered  as  best  I  could,  telling  him  something 
of  the  paralysis  it  had  caused  in  business,  of  the  war 
tax,  and  of  our  anxiety  as  to  the  status  of  our  ship- 
ping. 


THE  MAN  OF  YPRES  183 

"From  what  I  can  gather  from  the  newspapers,  the 
sentiment  in  America  is  being  greatly  influenced  by  the 
endangering  of  American  shipping." 

"Naturally.  But  your  press  endeavours  to  be  neu- 
tral, does  it  not?" 

"Not  particularly,"  I  admitted.  "Sooner  or  later 
our  papers  become  partisan.  It  is  difficult  not  to.  In 
this  war  one  must  take  sides." 

"Certainly.  One  must  take  sides.  One  cannot  be 
really  neutral  in  this  war.  Every  country  is  interested 
in  the  result,  either  actively  now  or  later  on,  when 
the  struggle  is  decided.  One  cannot  be  disinterested; 
one  must  be  partisan." 

The  staff  echoed  this. 

Having  been  interviewed  by  General  Foch  for  some 
time,  I  ventured  to  ask  him  a  question.  So  I  asked, 
as  I  asked  every  general  I  met,  if  the  German  ad- 
vance had  been  merely  ruthless  or  if  it  had  been  bar- 
baric. 

He  made  no  direct  reply,  but  he  said : 

"You  must  remember  that  the  Germans  are  not 
only  fighting  against  an  army,  they  are  fighting  against 
nations;  trying  to  destroy  their  past,  their  present, 
even  their  future." 

"How  does  America  feel  as  to  the  result  of  this 
war?"  he  asked.  "I  suppose  it  feels  no  doubt  as  to 
the  result." 

Again  I  was  forced  to  explain  my  own  inadequacy 
to  answer  such  a  question  and  my  total  lack  of  au-i 
thority  to  voice  American  sentiment.  While  I  was 
confident  that  many  Americans  believed  in  the  cause 
of  the  Allies,  and  had  every  confidence  in  the  out- 
come of  the  war,  there  remained  always  that  large 
and  prosperous  portion  of  the  population,  either  Ger* 


184  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

man-born  or  of  German  parentage,  which  had  no 
doubt  of  Germany's  success. 

"It  is  natural,  of  course,"  he  commented.  "How 
many  French  have  you  in  the  United  States  ?" 

I  thought  there  were  about  three  hundred  thousand, 
and  said  so. 

"You  treat  your  people  so  well  in  France/'  I  said, 
"that  few  of  them  come  to  us." 

He  nodded  and  smiled. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  blockade,  General 
Foch?"  I  said.  "I  have  just  crossed  the  Channel  and 
it  is  far  from  comfortable." 

"Such  a  blockade  cannot  be,"  was  his  instant  re- 
ply; "a  blockade  must  be  continuous  to  be  effective. 
In  a  real  blockade  all  neutral  shipping  must  be  stopped, 
and  Germany  cannot  do  this." 

One  of  the  staff  said  "Bluff !"  which  has  apparently 
been  adopted  into  the  French  language,  and  the  rest 
nodded  their  approval. 

Their  talk  moved  on  to  aeroplanes,  to  shells,  to 
the  French  artillery.  General  Foch  considered  that 
Zeppelins  were  useful  only  as  air  scouts,  and  that  with 
the  coming  of  spring,  with  short  nights  and  early 
dawns,  there  would  be  no  time  for  them  to  range 
far.  The  aeroplanes  he  considered  much  more  valu- 
able. 

"One  thing  has  impressed  me,"  I  said,  "as  I  havey 
seen  various  artillery  duels — the  number  of  shells  used 
with  comparatively  small  result.  After  towns  are 
destroyed  the  shelling  continues.  I  have  seen  a  hill- 
side where  no  troops  had  been  for  weeks,  almost  en- 
tirely covered  with  shell  holes. 

He  agreed  that  the  Germans  had  wasted  a  great 
deal  of  their  ammunition. 


THE  MAN  OF  YPRES  185 

Like  all  great  commanders,  he  was  intensely  proud 
of  his  men  and  their  spirit. 

"They  are  both  cheerful  and  healthy,"  said  the  gen- 
eral; "splendid  men.  We  are  very  proud  of  them. 
I  am  glad  that  America  is  to  know  something  of  their 
spirit,  of  the  invincible  courage^  and  resolution  of 
the  French  to  fight  in  the  cause  of  humanity  and 
justice." 

Luncheon  was  over.  It  had  been  a  good  luncheon, 
of  a  mound  of  boiled  cabbage,  finely  minced  beef  in 
the  centre,  of  mutton  cutlets  and  potatoes,  of  straw- 
berry jam,  cheese  and  coffee.  There  had  been  a  bot- 
tle of  red  wine  on  the  table.  A  few  of  the  staff 
took  a  little,  diluting  it  with  water.  General  Foch 
did  not  touch  it.  | 

We  rose.  I  had  an  impression  that  I  ha4  hid  my 
interview;  but  the  hospitality  and  kindness  of  this 
French  general  were  to  go  further. 

In  the  little  corridor  he  picked  up  his  dark-blue 
cap  and  we  set  out  for  official  headquarters,  followed 
by  several  of  the  officers.  He  walked  rapidly,  taking 
the  street  to  give  me  the  narrow  sidewalk  and  going 
along  with  head  bent  against  the  wind.  In  the  square, 
almost  deserted,  a  number  of  staff  cars  had  gathered, 
and  lorries  lumbered  through.  We  turned  to  the 
'  'eft,  between  the  sentry  and  the  gendarme,  and  climb- 
ing a  flight  of  wooden  stairs  were  in  the  anteroom  of 
the  general's  office.  Here  were  tables  covered  with 
papers,  telephones,  maps,  the  usual  paraphernalia  of 
such  rooms.  We  passed  through  a  pine  door,  and 
there  was  the  general's  room — a  bare  and  shabby 
room,  with  a  large  desk  in  front  of  the  two  windows 
that  overlooked  the  street,  a  shaded  lamp,  more  pa- 
pers and  a  telephone.  The  room  had  a  fireplace,  and 


186  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

in  front  of  it  was  a  fine  old  chair.  And  on  the  mantel- 
piece, as  out  of  place  as  the  chair,  was  a  marvellous 
Louis-Quinze  clock,  under  glass.  There  were  great 
maps  on  the  walls,  with  the  opposing  battle  lines  shown 
to  the  smallest  detail.  General  Foch  drew  my  at- 
tention at  once  to  the  clock. 

"During  the  battle  of  the  Yser,"  he  said,  "night 
and  day  my  eyes  were  on  that  clock.  Orders  were 
sent.  Then  it  was  necessary  to  wait  until  they  were 
carried  out.  It  was  by  the  clock  that  one  could  know 
what  should  be  happening.  The  hours  dragged.  It 
was  terrible." 

It  must  have  been  terrible.  Everywhere  I  had 
heard  the  same  story.  More  than  any  of  the  great 
battles  of  the  war,  more  even  than  the  battle  of  the 
Marne,  the  great  fight  along  the  Yser,  from  the 
twenty-first  of  October,  1914,  to  the  twelfth  of  No- 
vember, seems  to  have 'impressed  itself  in  sheer  horror 
on  the  minds  of  those  who  know  its  fear  fulness.  At 
every  headquarters  I  have  found  the  same  feeling. 

It  was  General  Foch's  army  that  reenforced  the 
British  at  that  battle.  The  word  had  evidently  been 
given  to  the  Germans  that  at  any  cost  they  must  break 
through.  They  hurled  themselves  against  the  British 
with  unprecedented  ferocity.  I  have  told  a  little  of 
that  battle,  of  the  frightful  casualties,  so  great  among 
the  Germans  that  they  carried  their  dead  back  and 
burned  them  in  great  pyres.  The  British  Army  was 
being  steadily  weakened.  The  Germans  came  steadily, 
new  lines  taking  the  place  of  those  that  were  gone. 
Then  the  French  came  up,  and,  after  days  of  strug- 
gle, the  line  held. 

General  Foch  opened  a  drawer  of  the  desk  and 
showed  me,  day  by  day,  the  charts  of  the  battle.  They 


THE  MAN  OF  YPRES  187 

were  bound  together  in  a  great  book,  and  each  day 
had  a  fresh  page.  The  German  Army  was  black.  The 
French  was  red.  Page  after  page  I  lived  that  battle, 
the  black  line  advancing,  the  blue  of  the  British  waver- 
ing against  overwhelming  numbers  and  ferocity,  the 
red  line  of  the  French  coming  up.  "The  Man  of 
Ypres,"  they  call  General  Foch,  and  well  they  may. 

"They  came,"  said  General  Foch,  "like  the  waves 
of  the  sea." 

It  was  the  second  time  I  had  heard  the  German 
onslaught  so  described. 

He  shut  the  book  and  sat  for  a  moment,  his  head 
bent,  as  though  in  living  over  again  that  fearful  time 
some  of  its  horror  had  come  back  to  him. 

At  last :  "I  paced  the  floor  and  watched  the  clock," 
he  said. 

How  terrible!  How  much  easier  to  take  a  sword 
and  head  a  charge!  How  much  simpler  to  lead  men 
to  death  than  to  send  them !  There  in  that  quiet  room, 
with  only  the  telephone  and  the  ticking  of  the  clock 
for  company,  while  his  staff  waited  outside  for  orders, 
this  great  general,  this  strategist  on  whose  strategy 
hung  the  lives  of  armies,  this  patriot  and  soldier  at 
whose  word  men  went  forth  to  die,  paced  the  floor. 

He  walked  over  to  the  clock  and  stood  looking 
at  it,  his  fine  head  erect,  his  hands  behind  him.  Some 
of  the  tragedy  of  those  nineteen  days  I  caught  from 
his  face. 

But  the  line  held. 

To-day,  as  I  write  this,  General  Foch's  army  in 
the  North  and  the  British  are  bearing  the  brunt  of 
another  great  attack  at  Ypres.*  The  British  have  made 

•Battle  of  Neuve  Chapelle  March,  1915. 


i88  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

a  gain  at  Neuve  Chapelle,  and  the  Germans  have  re- 
taliated by  striking  at  their  line,  some  miles  farther 
north.  If  they  break  through  it  will  be  toward  Ca- 
lais and  the  sea.  Every  offensive  movement  in  this 
new  warfare  of  trench  and  artillery  requires  a  con- 
centration of  reserves.  To  make  their  offensive  move- 
ment the  British  have  concentrated  at  Neuve  Chapelle. 
The  second  move  of  this  game  of  death  has  been  made 
by  the  other  side  against  the  weakened  line  of  the  Al- 
lies. During  the  winter  the  line,  in  this  manner,  auto- 
matically straightened.  But  what  will  happen  now? 

One  thing  we  know:  General  Foch  will  send  out 
his  brave  men,  and,  having  sent  them,  will  watch  the 
Louis-Quinze  clock  and  wait.  And  other  great  gen- 
erals will  send  out  their  men,  and  wait  also.  There 
will  be  more  charts,  and  every  fresh  line  of  black  or 
blue  or  red  or  Belgian  yellow  will  mean  a  thousand 
deaths,  ten  thousand  deaths. 

They  are  fighting  to-day  at  Ypres.  I  have  seen 
that  flat  and  muddy  battlefield.  I  have  talked  with 
the  men,  have  stood  by  the  batteries  as  they  fired. 
How  many  of  the  boys  I  watched  playing  prisoners' 
base  round  their  guns  in  the  intervals  of  firing  are 
there  to-day?  How  many  remain  of  that  little  com- 
pany of  soldiers  who  gave  three  cheers  for  me  be- 
cause I  was  the  only  woman  they  had  seen  for 
months?  How  many  of  the  officers  who  shrugged 
their  shoulders  when  I  spoke  of  danger  have  gone 
down  to  death? 

Outside  the  window  where  I  am  writing  this, 
Fifth  Avenue,  New  York,  has  just  left  its  churches 
and  is  flaunting  its  spring  finery  in  the  sun.  Across 
the  sea,  such  a  little  way  as  measured  by  time,  peo- 
ple are  in  the  churches  also.  The  light  comes  through 


THE  MAN  OF  YPRES  189 

the  ancient,  stained-glass  windows  and  falls,  not  on 
spring  finery,  not  on  orchids  and  gardenias,  but  on 
thousands  of  tiny  candles  burning  before  the  shrine 
of  the  Mother  of  Pity. 

It  is  so  near.  And  it  is  so  terrible.  How  can  we 
play?  How  can  we  think  of  anything  else?  But 
for  the  grace  of  God,  your  son  and  mine  lying  there 
in  the  spring  sunlight  on  the  muddy  battlefield  of 
Ypres ! 


T  WAS  taken  to  see  the  battlefield  of  Ypres  by 
•*•  Captain  Boisseau,  of  the  French  War  Academy, 
and  Lieutenant  Rene  Puaux,  of  the  staff  of  General 
Foch.  It  was  a  bright  and  sunny  day,  with  a  cold 
wind,  however,  that  set  the  water  in  the  wayside 
ditches  to  rippling. 

All  the  night  before  I  had  wakened  at  intervals 
to  heavy  cannonading  and  the  sharp  cracking  of 
mitrailleuse.  We  were  well  behind  the  line,  but  the 
wind  was  coming  from  the  direction  of  the  battle- 
field. 

The  start  was  made  from  in  front  of  General  Foch's 
headquarters.  He  himself  put  me  in  the  car,  and 
bowed  an  au  revoir. 

"You  will  see,"  he  said,  "the  French  soldier  in  the 
field,  and  you  will  see  him  cheerful  and  well.  You 
will  find  him  full  also  of  invincible  courage  and  reso- 
lution." 

And  all  that  he  had  said,  I  found.  I  found  the 
French  soldiers  smiling  and  cheerful  and  ruddy  in 
the  most  wretched  of  billets.  I  found  them  firing 
at  the  enemy,  still  cheerful,  but  with  a  coolness  of 
courage  that  made  my  own  shaking  nerves  steady 
themselves. 

To-day,  when  that  very  part  of  the  line  I  visited  is, 

190 


IN  THE  LINE  OF  THE  "MITRAILLEUSE"     191 

as  was  expected  when  I  was  there,  bearing  the  brunt 
of  the  German  attack  in  the  most  furious  fighting  of 
the  war,  I  wonder,  of  those  French  soldiers  who 
crowded  round  to  see  the  first  woman  they  had  ber 
held  for  months,  how  many  are  lying  on  that  muddy 
battlefield?  What  has  happened  on  that  road, 
guarded  by  buried  quick-firers,  that  stretched  to  the 
German  trenches  beyond  the  poplar  trees?  Did  the 
"rabbit  trap"  do  its  work?  Only  for  a  time,  I  think, 
.'for  was  it  not  there  that  the  Germans  broke  through  ? 
Did  the  Germans  find  and  silence  that  concealed  bat- 
tery of  seventy-five-millimetre  guns  under  its  imita- 
tion hedge?  Who  was  in  the  tree  lookout  as  the  en- 
emy swarmed  across,  and  did  he  get  away  ? 

Except  for  the  constant  road  repairing  there  was 
little  to  see  during  the  first  part  of  the  journey.  Here 
in  a  flat  field,  well  beyond  the  danger  zone,  some  of 
the  new  British  Army  was  digging  practice  trenches 
in  the  mud.  Their  tidy  uniforms  were  caked  with 
dirt,  their  faces  earnest  and  flushed.  At  last  the  long 
training  at  Salisbury  Plain  was  over,  and  here  they 
were,  if  not  at  the  front,  within  hearing  distance  of 
the  guns.  Any  day  now  a  bit  of  luck  would  move 
them  forward,  and  there  would  be  something  doing. 

By  now,  no  doubt,  they  have  been  moved  up  and 
there  has  been  something  doing.  Poor  lads!  I 
watched  them  until  even  their  khaki-coloured  tents 
had  faded  into  the  haze.  The  tall,  blonde,  young 
officer,  Lieutenant  Puaux,  pointed  out  to  me  a  de- 
tachment of  Belgian  soldiers  mending  roads.  As  our 
car  passed  they  leaned  on  their  spades  and  looked 
after  us. 

"Belgian  .carabineers,"  he  said.  "They  did  some  of 
the  most  heroic  work  of  the  war  last  summer  and 


192  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

autumn.  They  were  decorated  by  the  King.  Now 
they  are  worn  out  and  they  mend  roads!" 

For — and  this  I  had  to  learn — a  man  may  not  fight 
always,  even  although  he  escapes  actual  injury.  It  is 
the  greatest  problem  of  commanding  generals  that  they 
must  be  always  moving  forward  fresh  troops.  The 
human  element  counts  for  much  in  any  army.  Nerves 
go  after  a  time.  The  constant  noise  of  the  guns  has 
sent  men  mad. 

More  than  ever,  in  this  new  warfare,  is  the  problem 
serious.  For  days  the  men  suffer  not  only  the  enemy's 
guns  but  the  roar  of  their  own  batteries  from  behind 
them.  They  cannot  always  tell  which  side  they  hear. 
Their  tortured  ears  ache  with  listening.  And  when 
they  charge  and  capture  an  outpost  it  is  not  always 
certain  that  they  will  escape  their  own  guns.  In  one 
tragic  instance  that  I  know  of  this  happened. 

The  route  was  by  way  of  Poperinghe,  with  its  nar- 
row, crowded  streets,  its  fresh  troops  just  arrived  and 
waiting  patiently,  heavy  packs  beside  them,  for  orders. 
In  Poperinghe  are  found  all  the  troops  of  the  Allies : 
British,  Belgian,  French,  Hindus,  Cingalese,  Algerians, 
Moroccans.  Its  streets  are  a  series  of  colourful  pic- 
tures, of  quaint  uniforms,  of  a  babel  of  tongues,  of 
that  minor  confusion  that  is  order  on  a  great  scale. 
The  inevitable  guns  rumbled  along  with  six  horses  and 
three  drivers :  a  lead  driver,  a  centre  driver  and  wheel 
driver.  Unlike  the  British  guns,  there  are  generally 
no  gunners  with  the  guns,  but  only  an  officer  or  two. 
The  gunners  go  ahead  on  foot.  Lines  of  hussars  rode 
by,  making  their  way  slowly  round  a  train  of  British 
Red-Cross  ambulances. 

At  Elverdingue  I  was  to  see  the  men  in  their  bill- 
ets. Elverdingue  was  another  Poperinghe — the  same 


IN  THE  LINE  OF  THE  "MITRAILLEUSE"     193 

crowds  of  soldiers,  the  same  confusion,  only  perhaps 
more  emphasised,  for  Elverdingue  is  very  near  the 
front,  between  Poperinghe  and  Ypres  and  a  little  to 
the  north,  where  the  line  that  curves  out  about  Ypres 
bends  back  again. 

More  guns,  more  hussars.  It  was  difficult  to  walk 
across  the  narrow  streets.  We  watched  our  chance  and 
broke  through  at  last,  going  into  a  house  at  random. 
[As  each  house  had  soldiers  billeted  in  it,  it  was  certain 
we  would  find  some,  and  I  was  to  see  not  selected 
quarters  but  billets  chosen  at  random.  Through  a 
narrow,  whitewashed  centre  hall,  with  men  in  the 
rooms  on  either  side,  and  through  a  muddy  kitchen, 
where  the  usual  family  was  huddled  round  a  stove,  we 
went  into  a  tiny,  brick-paved  yard.  Here  was  a  shed, 
a  roof  only,  which  still  held  what  remained  of  the 
winter's  supply  of  coal. 

Two  soldiers  were  cooking  there.  Their  tiny  fire 
of  sticks  was  built  against  a  brick  wall,  and  on  it  was 
a  large  can  of  stewing  meat.  One  of  the  cooks — they 
were  company  cooks — was  watching  the  kettle  and 
paring  potatoes  in  a  basket.  The  other  was  reading  a 
letter  aloud.  As  the  officers  entered  the  men  rose  and 
saluted,  their  bright  eyes  taking  in  this  curious  party, 
which  included,  of  all  things,  a  woman! 

"When  did  you  get  in  from  the  trenches?"  one  of 
the  officers  asked. 

"At  two  o'clock  this  morning,  Monsieur  le  Capi- 
taine." 

"And  you  have  not  slept?" 

"But  no.  The  men  must  eat.  We  have  cooked  ever 
since  we  returned." 

Further  questioning  elicited  the  facts  that  he  would 
sleep  when  his  company  was  fed,  that  he  was  twenty- 


194  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

two  years  old,  and  that — this  not  by  questions  but  by 
investigation — he  was  sheltered  against  the  cold  by  a 
large  knitted  muffler,  an  overcoat,  a  coat,  a  green 
sweater,  a  flannel  shirt  and  an  undershirt.  Under  his 
blue  trousers  he  wore  also  the  red  ones  of  an  old  uni- 
form, the  red  showing,  through  numerous  rents  and 
holes. 

"You  have  a  letter,  comrade!"  said  the  Lieutenant 
to  the  other  man. 

"From  my  family,"  was  the  somewnat  sheepis.. 
reply. 

Round  the  doorway  other  soldiers  had  gathered  to 
see  what  was  occurring.  They  came,  yawning  with 
sleep,  from  the  straw  they  had  been  sleeping  on,  or 
drifted  in  from  the  streets,  where  they  had  been! 
smoking  in  the  sun.  They  were  true  republicans,  those 
French  soldiers.  They  saluted  the  officers  without  sub- 
servience, but  as  man  to  man.  And  through  a  break: 
in  the  crowd  a  new  arrival  was  shoved  forward.  He 
came,  smiling  uneasily. 

"He  has  the  new  uniform,"  I  was  informed,  and  he 
must  turn  round  to  show  me  how  he  looked  in  it. 

We  went  across  the  street  and  through  an  alleyway 
to  an  open  place  where  stood  an  old  coach  house* 
Here  were  more  men,  newly  in  from  the  front.  The 
coach  house  was  a  ruin,  far  from  weather-proof  and 
floored  with  wet  and  muddy  straw.  One  could  hardly 
believe  that  that  straw  had  been  dry  and  fresh  when 
the  troops  came  in  at  dawn.  It  was  hideous  now, 
from  the  filth  of  the  trenches.  The  men  were  awake,: 
and  being  advised  of  our  coming  by  an  anxious  and 
loud-voiced  member  of  the  company  who  ran  ahead, 
they  were  on  their  feet,  while  others,  who  had  been, 
sleeping  in  the  loft,  were  on  their  way  down  the  ladder* 


IN  THE  LINE  OF  THE  "MITRAILLEUSE"     195 

"They  have  been  in  a  very  bad  place  all  night,"  said 
the  Captain.  "They  are  glad  to  be  here,  they  say." 

"You  mean  that  they  have  been  in  a  dangerous 
place?" 

The  men  were  laughing  among  themselves  and  push- 
ing forward  one  of  their  number.  Urged  by  their 
rapid  French,  he  held  out  his  cap  to  me.  It  had  been 
badly  torn  by  a  German  bullet.  Encouraged  by  his 
example,  another  held  out  his  cap.  The  cnrvn  had 
been  torn  almost  out  of  it. 

"You  see,"  said  Captain  Boisseau,  "it  was  not  a 
comfortable  night.  But  they  are  here,  and  they  are 
content." 

I  could  understand  it,  of  course,  but  "here"  seemed 
so  pitifully  poor  a  place — a  wet  and  cold  and  dirty 
coach  house,  open  to  all  the  winds  that  blew;  before 
it  a  courtyard  stabling  army  horses  that  stood  to  the 
fetlocks  in  mud.  For  food  they  had  what  the  boy  of« 
twenty-two  or  other  cooks  like  him  were  preparing 
over  tiny  fires  built  against  brick  walls.  But  they  were 
alive,  and  there  were  letters  from  home,  and  before 
very  long  they  expected  to  drive  the  Germans  back  in 
one  of  those  glorious  charges  so  dear  to  the  French 
heart.  They  were  here,  and  they  were  content. 

More  sheds,  more  small  fires,  more  paring  of  pota- 
toes and  onions  and  simmering  of  stews.  The  meal 
of  the  day  was  in  preparation  and  its  odours  were 
savoury.  In  one  shed  I  photographed  the  cook,  paring 
potatoes  with  a  knife  that  looked  as  though  it  belonged 
on  the  end  of  a  bayonet.  And  here  I  was  lined  up  by 
the  fire  and  the  cook — and  the  knife — and  my  picture 
taken.  It  has  not  yet  reached  me.  Perhaps  it  went  by 
way  of  England,  and  was  deleted  by  the  censor  as 
showing  munitions  of  war ! 


196  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

From  Elverdingue  the  road  led  north  and  west,  fol- 
lowing the  curves  of  the  trenches.  We  went  through 
Woesten,  where  on  the  day  before  a  dramatic  incident 
had  taken  place.  Although  the  town  was  close  to  the 
battlefield  and  its  church  in  plain  view  from  the  Ger- 
man lines,  it  had  escaped  bombardment.  But  one  Sun- 
day morning  a  shot  was  fired.  The  shell  went  through 
the  roof  of  the  church  just  above  the  altar,  fell  and 
exploded,  killing  the  priest  as  he  knelt.  The  hole  in 
the  roof  of  the  building  bore  mute  evidence  to  this 
tragedy.  It  was  a  small  hole,  for  the  shell  exploded 
inside  the  building.  When  I  saw  it  a  half  dozen  planks 
had  been  nailed  over  it  to  keep  out  the  rain. 

There  were  trees  outside  Woesten,  more  trees  than 
I  had  been  accustomed  to  nearer  the  sea.  Here  and 
there  a  troop  of  cavalry  horses  was  corralled  in  a 
grove ;  shaggy  horses,  not  so  large  as  the  English  ones. 
They  were  confined  by  the  simple  expedient  of  stretch- 
ing a  rope  from  tree  to  tree  in  a  large  circle. 

"French  horses,"  I  said,  "always  look  to  me  so  small 
and  light  compared  with  English  horses." 

Then  a  horse  moved  about,  and  on  its  shaggy 
flank  showed  plainly  the  mark  of  a  Western  branding 
iron!  They  were  American  cow  ponies  from  the 
plains. 

"There  are  more  than  a  hundred  thousand  American 
horses  here,"  observed  the  Lieutenant.  "They  are  very 
good  horses." 

Later  on  I  stopped  to  stroke  the  soft  nose  of  a 
black  horse  as  it  stood  trembling  near  a  battery  of 
heavy  guns  that  was  firing  steadily.  It  was  American 
too.  On  its  flank  there  was  a  Western  brand.  I  gave 
it  an  additional  caress,  and  talked  a  little  American 
into  one  of  its  nervous,  silky  ears.  We  were  both  far 


IN  THE  LINE  OF  THE  "MITRAILLEUSE"     197 

from  home,  a  trifle  bewildered,  a  bit  uneasy  and 
frightened. 

And  now  it  was  the  battlefield — the  flat,  muddy 
plain  of  Ypres.  On  the  right  bodies  of  men,  sheltered 
by  intervening  groves  and  hedges,  moved  about.  Dis- 
patch riders  on  motor  cycles  flew  along  the  roads,  and 
over  the  roof  of  a  deserted  farmhouse  an  observation 
balloon  swung  in  the  wind.  Beyond  the  hedges  and 
the  grove  lay  the  trenches,  and  beyond  them  again 
German  batteries  were  growling.  Their  shells,  how- 
ever, were  not  bursting  anywhere  near  us. 

The  balloon  was  descending.  I  asked  permission  to 
go  up  in  it,  but  when  I  saw  it  near  at  hand  I  withdrew 
the  request.  It  had  no  basket,  like  the  ones  I  had  seen 
before,  but  instead  the  observers,  two  of  them,  sat 
astride  a  horizontal  bar. 

The  English  balloons  have  a  basket  beneath,  I  am 
told.  One  English  airship  man  told  me  that  to  be  sent 
up  in  a  stationary  balloon  was  the  greatest  penalty  a 
man  could  be  asked  to  pay.  The  balloon  jerks  at  the 
end  of  its  rope  like  a  runaway  calf,  and  "the  resulting 
nausea  makes  sea-sickness  seem  like  a  trip  to  the 
Crystal  Palace." 

So  I  did  not  go  up  in  that  observation  balloon  on 
the  field  of  Ypres.  We  got  out  of  the  car,  and 
trudged  after  the  balloon  as  it  was  carried  to  its  new 
position  by  many  soldiers.  We  stood  by  as  it  rose 
again  above  the  tree  tops,  the  rope  and  the  telephone 
wire  hanging  beneath  it.  But  what  the  observers  saw 
that  afternoon  from  their  horizontal  bar  I  do  not  yet 
know — trenches,  of  course.  But  trenches  are  interest- 
ing in  this  war  only  when  their  occupants  have  left 
them  and  started  forward.  Batteries  and  ammunition 
trains,  probably,  the  latter  crawling  along  the  enemy's 


198  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

roads.  But  both  of  these  can  be  better  and  more  easily 
located  by  aeroplanes. 

The  usefulness  of  the  captive  balloon  in  this  war  is 
doubtful.  It  serves,  at  the  best,  to  take  the  place  of 
an  elevation  of  land  in  this  flat  country,  is  a  large  and 
tempting  target,  and  can  serve  only  on  very  clear  days 
when  there  is  no  ground  mist — a  difficult  thing  to 
achieve  in  Flanders. 

We  were  getting  closer  to  the  front  all  the  time.  As 
the  automobile  jolted  on,  drawing  out  for  transports, 
for  ambulances  and  ammunition  wagons,  the  two 
French  officers  spoke  of  the  heroism  of  their  men. 
They  told  me,  one  after  the  other,  of  brave  deeds  that 
had  come  under  their  own  observation. 

"The  French  common  soldier  is  exceedingly  brave — 
quite  reckless,"  one  of  them  said.  "Take,  for  instance, 
the  case,  a  day  or  so  ago,  of  Philibert  Musillat,  of  the 
1 68th  Infantry.  We  had  captured  a  communication 
trench  from  the  Germans  and  he  was  at  the  end  of  it, 
alone.  There  was  a  renewal  of  the  German  attack, 
and  they  came  at  him  along  the  trench.  He  refused  to 
retreat.  His  comrades  behind  handed  him  loaded 
rifles,  and  he  killed  every  German  that  appeared  until 
they  lay  in  a  heap.  The  Germans  threw  bombs  at  him, 
but  he  would  not  move.  He  stood  there  for  more  than 
twelve  hours !" 

There  were  many  such  stories,  such  as  that  of  the 
boys  of  the  senior  class  of  the  military  school  of  St. 
Cyr,  who  took,  the  day  of  the  beginning  of  the  war, 
an  oath  to  put  on  gala  dress,  white  gloves  and  a  red, 
white  and  blue  plume,  when  they  had  the  honour  to 
receive  the  first  order  to  charge. 

They  did  it,  too.  Theatrical  ?  Isn't  it  just  splendid- 
ly boyish  ?  They  did  it,  you  see.  The  first  of  them  to 


IN  THE  LINE  OF  THE  "MITRAILLEUSE"     199 

die,  a  young  sub-lieutenant,  was  found  afterward,  his 
red,  white  and  blue  plume  trampled  in  the  mud,  his 
brave  white  gloves  stained  with  his  own  hot  young 
blood.  Another  of  these  St.  Cyr  boys,  shot  in  the 
face  hideously  and  unable  to  speak,  stood  still  under 
fire  and  wrote  his  orders  to  his  men.  It  was  his  first 
day  under  fire. 

A  boy  fell  injured  between  the  barbed  wire  in  front 
of  his  trench  and  the  enemy,  in  that  No  Man's  Land 
of  so  many  tragedies.  His  comrades,  afraid  of  hitting 
him,  stopped  firing. 

"Go  on !"  he  called  to  them.  "No  matter  about  me. 
Shoot  at  them!" 

So  they  fired,  and  he  writhed  for  a  moment. 

"I  got  one  of  yours  that  time!"  he  said. 

The  Germans  retired,  but  the  boy  still  lay  on  the 
ground,  beyond  readh.  He  ceased  moving,  and  they 
thought  he  was  dead.  One  may  believe  that  they 
hoped  he  was  dead.  It  was  more  merciful  than  the  : 
slow  dying  of  No  Man's  Land.  But  after  a  time  he 
raised  his  head. 

"Look  out,"  he  called.  "They  are  coming  again. 
They  are  almost  up  to  me !" 

That  is  all  of  that  story. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 
FRENCH    GUNS    IN   ACTION 


THE  car  stopped.  We  were  at  the  wireless  and 
telephone  headquarters  for  the  French  Army 
of  the  North.  It  was  a  low  brick  building,  and  out- 
side, just  off  the  roadway,  was  a  high  van  full  of 
telephone  instruments.  That  it  was  moved  from  one 
place  to  another  was  shown  when,  later  in  the  day, 
returning  by  that  route,  we  found  the  van  had  disap- 
peared. 

It  was  two  o'clock.  The  German  wireless  from  Ber- 
lin had  just  come  in.  At  three  the  receiving  station 
would  hear  from  the  Eiffel  Tower  in  Paris.  It  was 
curious  to  stand  there  and  watch  the  operator,  receiv- 
ers on  his  ears,  picking  up  the  German  message.  It  was 
curious  to  think  that,  just  a  little  way  over  there, 
across  a  field  or  two,  the  German  operator  was  doing 
the  same  thing,  and  that  in  an  hour  he  would  be 
receiving  the  French  message. 

All  the  batteries  of  the  army  corps  are — or  were — ' 
controlled  from  that  little  station.  The  colonel  in 
charge  came  out  to  greet  us,  and  to  him  Captain 
Boisseau  gave  General  Foch's  request  to  show  me 
batteries  in  action. 

The  colonel  was  very  willing.  He  would  go  with 
us  himself.  I  conquered  a  strong  desire  to  stand  with 
the  telephone  building  between  me  and  the  German 

200 


FRENCH  GUNS  IN  ACTION  201 

lines,  now  so  near,  and  looked  about.  A  French 
aeroplane  was  overhead,  but  there  was  little  bustle  and 
activity  along  the  road.  It  is  a  curious  fact  in  this  war 
that  the  nearer  one  is  to  the  front  the  quieter  things 
become.  Three  or  four  miles  behind  there  is  bustle  and 
movement.  A  mile  behind,  and  only  an  occasional  dis- 
patch rider,  a  few  men  mending  roads,  an  officer's  car, 
a  few  horses  tethered  in  a  wood,  a  broken  gun  car- 
riage, a  horse  being  shod  behind  a  wall,  a  soldier  on 
a  lookout  platform  in  a  tree,  thickets  and  hedges 
that  on  occasion  spout  fire  and  death — that  is  the 
country  round  Ypres  and  just  behind  the  line,  in  day- 
light. 

We  were  between  Ypres  and  the  Allied  line,  in  that 
arc  which  the  Germans  are,  as  I  write,  trying  so  hard 
to  break  through.  The  papers  say  that  they  are  shell- 
ing Ypres  and  that  it  is  burning.  They  were  shelling 
it  that  day  also.  But  now,  as  then,  I  cannot  believe  it 
is  burning.  There  was  nothing  left  to  burn. 

While  arrangements  were  being  made  to  visit  the 
batteries,  Lieutenant  Puaux  explained  to  me  a  method 
they  had  established  at  that  point  for  measuring  the 
altitude  of  hostile  aeroplanes  for  the  guns. 

"At  some  anti-aircraft  batteries,"  he  explained, 
/'they  have  the  telemeter  for  that  purpose.  But  here 
there  is  none.  So  they  use  the  system  of  visee  laterale, 
or  side  sight,  literally." 

He  explained  it  all  carefully  to  me.  I  understood  it 
at  the  time,  I  think. 

I  remember  saying  it  was  perfectly  clear,  and  a  child 
could  do  it,  and  a  number  of  other  things.  But  the 
system  of  visee  laterale  has  gone  into  that  part  of  my 
mind  which  contains  the  Latin  irregular  verbs,  har- 
monies, the  catechism  and  answers  to  riddles. 


202  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

There  is  a  curious  feeling  that  comes  with  the  firing 
of  a  large  battery  at  an  unseen  enemy.  One  moment 
the  air  is  still;  there  is  a  peaceful  plain  round.  The 
sun  shines,  and  heavy  cart  horses,  drawing  a  wagon 
filled  with  stones  for  repairing  a  road,  are  moving  for- 
ward steadily,  their  heads  down,  their  feet  sinking 
deep  in  the  mud.  The  next  moment  hell  breaks  loose. 
The  great  guns  stand  with  smoking  jaws.  The  message 
of  death  has  gone  forth.  Over  beyond  the  field  and 
that  narrow  line  of  trees,  what  has  happened  ?  A  great 
noise,  the  furious  recoiling  of  the  guns,  an  upcurling 
of  smoke — that  is  the  firing  of  a  battery.  But  over 
there,  perhaps,  one  man,  or  twenty,  or  fifty  men,  lying 
still. 

So  I  required  assurance  that  this  battery  was  not 
being  fired  for  me.  I  had  no  morbid  curiosity  as  to 
batteries.  One  of  the  officers  assured  me  that  I  need 
have  no  concern.  Though  they  were  firing  earlier 
than  had  been  intended,  a  German  battery  had  been 
located  and  it  was  their  instructions  to  disable  it. 

The  battery  had  been  well  concealed. 

"No  German  aeroplane  has  as  yet  discovered  it," 
explained  the  officer  in  charge. 

To  tell  the  truth,  I  had  not  yet  discovered  it  myself. 
We  had  alighted  from  the  machine  in  a  sea  of  mud. 
There  was  mud  everywhere. 

A  farmhouse  to  the  left  stood  inaccessible  in  it. 
Down  the  road  a  few  feet  a  tree  with  an  observation 
platform  rose  out  of  it.  A  few  chickens  waded  about 
in  it.  A  crowd  of  soldiers  stood  at  a  respectful  dis- 
tance and  watched  us.  But  I  saw  no  guns. 

One  of  the  officers  stooped  and  picked  up  the  cast 
shoe  of  a  battery  horse,  and  shaking  the  mud  off. 
presented  it  to  me. 


FRENCH  GUNS  IN  ACTION  203 

"To  bring  you  luck,"  he  said,  "and  perhaps  luck  to 
the  battery !" 

We  left  the  road,  and  turning  to  the  right  made  a 
floundering  progress  across  a  field  to  a  hedge.  Only 
when  we  were  almost  there  did  I  realise  that  the  hedge 
was  the  battery. 

"We  built  it,"  said  the  officer  in  charge.  '"We 
brought  the  trees  and  saplings  and  constructed  it. 
Madame  did  not  suspect?" 

Madame  had  not  suspected.  There  were  other 
hedges  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  the  artificial  one  had 
been  well  contrived.  Halfway  through  the  field  the 
party  paused  by  a  curious  elevation,  flat,  perhaps 
twenty  feet  across  and  circular. 

"The  cyclone  cellar!"  some  one  said.  "We  will 
come  here  during  the  return  fire." 

But  one  look  down  the  crude  steps  decided  me  to 
brave  the  return  fire  and  die  in  the  open.  The  cave 
below  the  flat  roof,  turf -covered  against  the  keen  eyes 
of  aeroplanes,  was  full  of  water.  The  officers  watched 
my  expression  and  smiled. 

And  now  we  had  reached  the  battery,  and  eager 
gunners  were  tearing  away  the  trees  and  shrubbery 
that  covered  them.  In  an  incredible  space  of  time  the 
great  grey  guns,  sinister,  potential  of  death,  lay  open 
to  the  bright  sky.  The  crews  gathered  round,  each 
man  to  his  place.  The  shell  was  pushed  home,  the 
gunners  held  the  lanyards. 

"Open  your  mouth  wide,"  said  the  officer  in  charge, 
and  gave  the  signal. 

The  great  steel  throats  were  torn  open.  The  mon- 
sters recoiled,  as  if  aghast  at  what  they  had  done. 
Their  white  smoke  curled  from  the  muzzles.  The  dull 
horses  in  the  road  lifted  their  heads. 


204  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

And  over  there,  beyond  the  line  of  poplar  trees, 
what? 

One  by  one  they  fired  the  great  guns.  Then  all 
together,  several  rounds.  The  air  was  torn  with  noise. 
Other  batteries,  far  and  near,  took  up  the  echo.  The 
lassitude  of  the  deadlock  was  broken. 

And  then  overhead  the  bursting  shell  of  a  German 
gun.  The  return  fire  had  commenced ! 

I  had  been  under  fire  before.  The  sound  of  a  burst- 
ing shell  was  not  a  new  one.  But  there  had  always 
before  been  a  strong  element  of  chance  in  my  favour. 
.When  the  Germans  were  shelling  a  town,  who  was  I 
that  a  shell  should  pick  me  out  to  fall  on  or  to  explode 
near?  But  this  was  different.  They  were  firing  at  a 
battery,  and  I  was  beside  that  battery.  It  was  all  very 
well  for  the  officer  in  charge  to  have  said  they  had 
never  located  his  battery.  I  did  not  believe  him.  I 
still  doubt  him.  For  another  shell  came. 

The  soldiers  from  the  farmhouse  had  gathered  be- 
hind us  in  the  field.  I  turned  and  looked  at  them. 
They  were  smiling.  So  I  summoned  a  shaky  smile 
myself  and  refused  the  hospitality  of  the  cellar  full  of 
water. 

One  of  the  troopers  stepped  out  from  the  others. 

"We  have  just  completed  a  small  bridge,"  he  said — 
"a  bridge  over  the  canal.  Will  madame  do  us  the 
honour  of  walking  across  it?  It  will  thus  be  inaugu- 
rated by  the  only  lady  at  the  front." 

Madame  would.  Madame  did.  But  without  any 
real  enthusiasm.  The  men  cheered,  and  another  Ger- 
man shell  came,  and  everything  was  merry  as  a  mar- 
riage bell. 

They  invited  me  to  climb  the  ladder  to  the  lookout 
in  the  tree  and  look  at  the  enemy's  trenches.  But 


FRENCH  GUNS  IN  ACTION  205 

under  the  circumstances  I  declined.  I  felt  that  it  was 
time  to  move  on  and  get  hence.  The  honour  of  being 
the  only  woman  who  had  got  to  the  front  at  Ypres 
began  to  weigh  heavy  on  me.  I  mentioned  the  passing 
of  time  and  the  condition  of  the  roads. 

So  at  last  I  got  into  the  car.  The  officers  of  the 
battery  bowed,  and  the  men,  some  fifty  of  them,  gave 
me  three  rousing  cheers.  I  think  of  them  now,  and 
there  is  a  lump  in  my  throat.  They  were  so  interested, 
so  smiling  and  cheery,  that  bright  late  February  after- 
noon, standing  in  the  mud  of  the  battlefield  of  Ypres, 
with  German  shells  bursting  overhead.  Half  of  them, 
even  then,  had  been  killed  or  wounded.  Each  day 
took  its  toll  of  some  of  them,  one  way  or  another. 

How  many  of  them  are  left  to-day?  The  smiling 
officer,  so  debonair,  so  proud  of  his  hidden  battery, 
where  is  he?  The  tiny  bridge,  has  it  run  red  this 
last  week  ?  The  watchman  in  the  tree,  what  did  he  see, 
that  terrible  day  when  the  Germans  got  across  the  canal 
and  charged  over  the  flat  lands? 

The  Germans  claim  to  have  captured  guns  at  or 
near  this  place.  One  thing  I  am  sure  of :  This  battery 
or  another,  it  was  not  taken  while  there  were  men 
belonging  to  it  to  defend  it.  The  bridge  would  run 
red  and  the  water  under  the  bridge,  the  muddy  field 
be  strewn  with  bodies,  before  those  cheery,  cool-eyed 
and  indomitable  French  gunners  would  lose  their  guns. 

The  car  moved  away,  fifty  feet,  a  hundred  feet,  and 
turned  out  to  avoid  an  ammunition  wagon,  disabled  in 
the  road.  It  was  fatal.  We  slid  off  into  the  mire  and 
settled  down.  I  looked  back  at  the  battery.  A  fresh 
shell  was  bursting  high  in  the  air. 

We  sat  there,  interminable  hours  that  were  really 
minutes,  while  an  orderly  and  the  chauffeur  dug  us  out 


206  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

with  spades.  We  conversed  of  other  things.  But  it 
was  a  period  of  uneasiness  on  my  part.  And,  as  if  to 
point  the  lesson  and  adorn  the  tale,  away  to  the  left, 
rising  above  the  plain,  was  the  church  roof  with  the 
hole  in  it — mute  evidence  that  even  the  mantle  of 
'righteousness  is  no  protection  against  a  shell. 

Our  course  was  now  along  a  road  just  behind  the 
trenches  and  paralleling  them,  to  an  anti-aircraft  sta- 
tion. 

I  have  seen  a  number  of  anti-aircraft  stations  at  the 
front :  English  ones  near  the  coast  and  again  south  of 
Ypres;  guns  mounted,  as  was  this  French  battery,  on 
the  plain  of  a  battlefield;  isolated  cannon  in  towers  and 
on  the  tops  of  buildings  and  water  tanks.  I  have 
seen  them  in  action,  firing  at  hostile  planes.  I  have 
never  yet  seen  them  do  any  damage,  but  they  serve  a 
useful  purpose  in  keeping  the  scouting  machines  high 
in  the  air,  thus  rendering  difficult  the  work  of  the 
enemy's  observer.  The  real  weapon  against  the  hostile 
aeroplane  is  another  machine.  Several  times  I  have 
seen  German  Taubes  driven  off  by  French  aviators, 
and  winging  a  swift  flight  back  to  their  lines.  Not, 
one  may  be  sure,  through  any  lack  of  courage  on  the 
part  of  German  aviators.  They  are  fearless  and  ex- 
tremely skilful.  But  because  they  have  evidently  been 
instructed  to  conserve  their  machines. 

I  had  considerable  curiosity  as  to  the  anti-aircraft 
batteries.  How  was  it  possible  to  manipulate  a  large 
field  gun,  with  a  target  moving  at  a  varying  height, 
and  at  a  speed  velocity  of,  say,  sixty  miles  an  hour? 

The  answer  was  waiting  on  the  field  just  north  of 
Ypres. 

A  brick  building  by  the  road  was  evidently  a  store- 
house for  provisions  for  the  trenches.  Unloaded  in 


FRENCH  GUNS  IN  ACTION  207 

front  of  it  were  sacks  of  bread,  meal  and  provisions. 
And  standing  there  in  the  sunshine  was  the  commander 
of  the  field  battery,  Captain  Mignot.  A  tall  and 
bearded  man,  essentially  grave,  he  listened  while  Lieu- 
tenant Puaux  explained  the  request  from  General  Foch 
that  I  see  his  battery.  He  turned  and  scanned  the  sky. 

"We  regret,"  he  said  seriously,  "that  at  the  moment 
there  is  no  aeroplane  in  sight.  We  will,  however,  show 
Madame  everything." 

He  led  the  way  round  the  corner  of  the  building  to 
where  a  path,  neatly  banked,  went  out  through  the 
mud  to  the  battery. 

"Keep  to  the  path,"  said  a  tall  sign.  But  there  was 
no  temptation  to  do  otherwise.  There  must  have  been 
fifty  acres  to  that  field,  unbroken  by  hedge  or  tree. 
As  we  walked  out,  Captain  Mignot  paused  and  pointed 
his  finger  up  and  somewhat  to  the  right. 

"German  shrapnel!"  he  said.  True  enough,  little 
spherical  clouds  told  where  it  had  burst  harmlessly. 

As  cannonading  had  been  going  on  steadily  all  the 
afternoon,  no  one  paid  any  particular  attention.  We 
walked  on  in  the  general  direction  of  the  trenches. 

The  gunners  were  playing  prisoner's  base  just  be- 
yond the  guns.  When  they  saw  us  coming  the  game 
ceased,  and  they  hurried  to  their  stations.  Boys  they 
were,  most  of  them.  The  youth  of  the  French  troops 
had  not  impressed  me  so  forcibly  as  had  the  boyishness 
of  the  English  and  the  Belgians.  They  are  not  so 
young,  on  an  average,  I  believe.  But  also  the  deception 
of  maturity  is  caused  by  a  general  indifference  to  shav- 
ing while  in  the  field. 

But  Captain  Mignot  evidently  had  his  own  ideas  of 
military  smartness,  and  these  lads  were  all  clean- 
shaven. They  trooped  in  from  their  game,  under  that 


208  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

little  cloud  of  shrapnel  smoke  that  still  hung  in  the  sky, 
for  all  the  world  a  crowd  of  overheated  and  self-con- 
scious schoolboys  receiving  an  unexpected  visit  from 
the  master  of  the  school. 

•  The  path  ended  at  the  battery.  In  the  centre  of  the 
guns  was  a  raised  platform  of  wood,  and  a  small 
shelter  house  for  the  observer  or  officer  on  duty.  There 
were  five  guns  in  pits  round  this  focal  point  and  form- 
ing a  circle.  And  on  the  platform  in  the  centre  was 
a  curious  instrument  on  a  tripod. 

"The  telemeter,"  explained  Captain  Mignot;  "for 
obtaining  the  altitude  of  the  enemy's  aeroplane.'* 

Once  again  we  all  scanned  the  sky  anxiously,  but 
uselessly. 

"I  don't  care  to  have  any  one  hurt,"  I  said;  "but 
if  a  plane  is  coming  I  wish  it  would  come  now.  Or  a 
Zeppelin." 

The  captain's  serious  face  lighted  in  a  smile. 

"A  Zeppelin!"  he  said.  "We  would  with  pleasure 
wait  all  the  night  for  a  Zeppelin !" 

He  glanced  round  at  the  guns.  Every  gunner  was 
in  his  place.  We  were  to  have  a  drill. 

"We  will  suppose,"  he  said,  "that  a  German  aero- 
plane is  approaching.  To  fire  correctly  we  must  first 
know  its  altitude.  So  we  discover  that  with  this." 
He  placed  his  hand  on  the  telemeter.  "There  are,  you 
observe,  two  apertures,  one  for  each  eye.  In  one  the 
aeroplane  is  seen  right  side  up.  In  the  other  the  image 
is  inverted,  upside  down.  Now!  By  this  screw  the 
images  are  made  to  approach,  until  one  is  superim- 
posed exactly  over  the  other.  Immediately  on  the 
lighted  dial  beneath  is  shown  the  altitude,  in  metres." 

I  put  my  eyes  to  the  openings,  and  tried  to  imagine 
an  aeroplane  overhead,  manoeuvring  to  drop  a  bomb 


FRENCH  GUNS  IN  ACTION  209 

or  a  dart  on  me  while  I  calculated  its  altitude.    I  could 
not  do  it. 

Next  I  was  shown  the  guns.  They  were  the  famous 
seventy-five-millimetre  guns  of  France,  transformed 
into  aircraft  guns  by  the  simple  expedient  of  installing 
them  in  a  pit  with  sloping  sides,  so  that  their  noses 
pointed  up  and  out.  To  swing  them  round,  so  that 
they  pointed  readily  toward  any  portion  of  the  sky,  a 
circular  framework  of  planks  formed  a  round  rim  to 
the  pit,  and  on  this  runway,  heavily  greased,  the  muz- 
zles were  swung  about. 

The  gun  drill  began.  It  was  executed  promptly, 
skilfully.  There  was  no  bungling,  not  a  wrong  motion 
or  an  unnecessary  one,  as  they  went  through  the  move- 
ments of  loading,  sighting  and  firing  the  guns.  It  was 
easy  to  see  why  French  artillery  has  won  its  renown. 
The  training  of  the  French  artilleryman  is  twice  as 
severe  as  that  of  the  infantryman.  Each  man,  in  addi- 
tion to  knowing  his  own  work  on  the  gun,  must  be 
able  to  do  the  work  of  all  the  eleven  others.  Casualties 
must  occur,  and  in  spite  of  them  the  work  of  the  gun 
must  go  on. 

Casualties  had  occurred  at  that  station.  More  than 
half  the  original  battery  was  gone.  The  little  shelter 
house  was  splintered  in  a  hundred  places.  There  were 
shell  holes  throughout  the  field,  and  the  breech  of  one 
gun  had  recently  been  shattered  and  was  undergoing 
repair. 

The  drill  was  over  and  the  gunners  stood  at  atten- 
tion. I  asked  permission  to  photograph  the  battery, 
and  it  was  cheerfully  given.  One  after  the  other  I 
took  the  guns,  until  I  had  taken  four.  The  gunners 
waited  smilingly  expectant.  For  the  last  gun  I  found 
I  had  no  film,  but  I  could  not  let  it  go  at  that.  So  I 


210  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

pointed  the  empty  camera  at  it  and  snapped  the  shutter. 
It  would  never  do  to  show  discrimination. 

Somewhere  in  London  are  all  those  pictures.  They 
have  never  been  sent  to  me.  No  doubt  a  watchful 
English  government  pounced  on  them  in  the  mail, 
and,  in  connection  with  my  name,  based  on  them  most 
unjust  suspicions.  They  were  very  interesting.  There 
was  Captain  Mignot,  and  the  two  imposing  officers 
from  General  Foch's  staff;  there  were  smiling  young 
French  gunners;  there  was  the  telemeter,  which  cost, 
they  told  me,  ten  thousand  francs,  and  surely  deserved 
to  have  its  picture  taken,  and  there  was  one,  not  too 
steady,  of  a  patch  of  sunny  sky  and  a  balloon-shaped 
white  cloud,  where  another  German  shrapnel  had  burst 
overhead. 

The  drill  was  over.  We  went  back  along  the  path 
toward  the  road.  Behind  the  storehouse  the  evening 
meal  was  preparing  in  a  shed.  The  battery  was  to 
have  a  new  ration  that  night  for  a  change,  bacon  and 
codfish.  Potatoes  were  being  pared  into  a  great  kettle 
and  there  was  a  bowl  of  eggs  on  a  stand.  It  appeared 
to  me,  accustomed  to  the  meagre  ration  of  the  Bel- 
gians, that  the  French  were  dining  well  that  night  ori 
the  plains  of  Ypres. 

In  a  stable  near  at  hand  a  horse  whinnied.  I  patted 
him  as  I  passed,  and  he  put  his  head  against  my  shoul- 
der. 

"He  recognises  you!"  said  Captain  Boisseau,  "He 
too  is  American." 

It  was  late  afternoon  by  that  time.  The  plan  to 
reach  the  advanced  trenches  was  frustrated  by  an  in- 
creasing fusillade  from  the  front.  There  were  barbed- 
wire  entanglements  everywhere,  and  every  field  was 
honeycombed  with  trenches.  One  looked  across  the 


FRENCH  GUNS  IN  ACTION  211 

plain  and  saw  nothing.  Then  suddenly  as  we  advanced 
great  gashes  cut  across  the  fields,  and  in  these  gashes, 
although  not  a  head  was  seen,  were  men.  The  firing 
was  continuous.  And  now,  going  down  a  road,  with 
a  line  of  poplar  trees  at  the  foot  and  the  setting  sun 
behind  us  throwing  out  faint  shadows  far  ahead,  we 
saw  the  flash  of  water.  It  was  very  near.  It  was  the 
flooded  river  and  the  canal.  Beyond,  eight  hundred 
yards  or  less  from  where  we  stood,  were  the  Germans. 
To  one  side  the  inundation  made  a  sort  of  bay. 

It  was  along  this  part  of  the  field  that  the  Allies 
expected  the  German  Army  to  make  its  advance  when 
the  spring  movement  commenced.  And  as  nearly  as 
can  be  learned  from  the  cabled  accounts  that  is  where 
the  attack  was  made. 

A  captain  from  General  d'Urbal's  staff  met  us  at 
the  trenches,  and  pointed  out  the  strategical  value  of 
a  certain  place,  the  certainty  of  a  German  advance, 
and  the  preparations  that  were  made  to  meet  it. 

It  was  odd  to  stand  there  in  the  growing  dusk,  look- 
ing across  to  where  was  the  invading  army,  only  a  little 
over  two  thousand  feet  away.  It  was  rather  horrible 
to  see  that  beautiful  landscape,  the  untravelled  road 
ending  in  the  line  of  poplars,  so  very  close,  where  were 
the  French  outposts,  and  the  shining  water  just  beyond, 
and  talk  so  calmly  of  the  death  that  was  waiting  for 
the  first  Germans  who  crossed  the  canal. 


CHAPTER   XIX 
'I  NIBBLE  THEM" 


T  WENT  into  the  trenches.  The  captain  was  very 
•*•  proud  of  them. 

"They  represent  the  latest  fashion  in  trenchesj"  he 
explained,  smiling  faintly. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  easily  have  improved 
on  that  latest  fashion.  The  bottom  was  full  of  mud 
and  water.  Standing  in  the  trench,  I  could  see  over 
the  side  by  making  an  effort.  The  walls  were  wattled 
— that  is,  covered  with  an  interlacing  of  fagots  which 
made  the  sides  dry. 

But  it  was  not  for  that  reason  only  that  these 
trenches  were  called  the  latest  fashion.  They  were 
divided,  every  fifteen  feet  or  so,  by  a  bulwark  of  earth 
about  two  feet  thick,  round  which  extended  a  commu- 
nication trench. 

"The  object  of  dividing  these  trenches  in  this  man- 
ner is  to  limit  the  havoc  of  shells  that  drop  into  them," 
the  captain  explained.  "Without  the  earth  bulwark  a 
shell  can  kill  every  man  in  the  trench.  In  this  way  it 
can  kill  only  eight.  Now  stand  at  this  end  of  the 
trench.  What  do  you  see?" 

What  I  saw  was  a  barbed-wire  entanglement,  lead- 
ing into  a  cul-de-sac. 

"A  rabbit  trap!"  he  said.  "They  will  come  over 
the  field  there,  and  because  they  cannot  cross  the  en- 

212 


"I  NIBBLE  THEM"  213 

tanglement  they  will  follow  it.  It  is  built  like  a  great 
letter  V,  and  this  is  the  point." 

The  sun  had  gone  down  to  a  fiery  death  in  the  west. 
The  guns  were  firing  intermittently.  Now  and  then 
from  the  poplar  trees  came  the  sharp  ping  of  a  rifle. 
The  evening  breeze  had  sprung  up,  ruffling  the  surface 
of  the  water,  and  bringing  afresh  that  ever-present 
and  hideous  odour  of  the  battlefield.  Behind  us  the 
trenches  showed  signs  of  activity  as  the  darkness  fell. 

Suddenly  the  rabbit  trap  and  the  trench  grew  un- 
speakably loathsome  and  hideous  to  me.  What  a  mock- 
ery, this  business  of  killing  men!  No  matter  that 
beyond  the  canal  there  lurked  the  menace  of  a  foe 
that  had  himself  shown  unspeakable  barbarity  and  re- 
source in  plotting  death.  No  matter  if  the  very  odour 
that  stank  in  my  nostrils  called  loud  for  vengeance. 
I  thought  of  German  prisoners  I  had  seen,  German 
wounded  responding  so  readily  to  kindness  and  a 
smile.  I  saw  them  driven  across  that  open  space,  at 
the  behest  of  frantic  officers  who  were  obeying  a  guid- 
ing ambition  from  behind.  I  saw  them  herded  like 
cattle,  young  men  and  boys  and  the  fathers  of  families, 
in .  that  cruel  rabbit  trap  and  shot  by  men  who,  in 
their  turn,  were  protecting  their  country  and  their 
homes. 

I  have  in  my  employ  a  German  gardener.  He  has 
been  a  member  of  the  household  for  years.  He  has 
raised,  or  helped  to  raise,  the  children,  has  planted 
the  trees,  and  helped  them,  like  the  children,  through 
their  early  weakness.  All  day  long  he  works  in  the 
garden  among  his  flowers.  He  coaxes  and  pets  them, 
feeds  them,  moves  them  about  in  the  sun.  When 
guests  arrive,  it  is  Wilhelm's  genial  smile  that  greets 
them.  When  the  small  calamities  of  a  household  oc- 


214  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

cur,  it  is  Wilhelm's  philosophy  that  shows  us  how  to 
meet  them. 

Wilhelm  was  a  sergeant  in  the  German  Army  for 
five  years.  Now  he  is  an  American  citizen,  owning  his 
own  home,  rearing  his  children  to  a  liberty  his  own 
childhood  never  knew. 

But,  save  for  the  accident  of  emigration,  Wilhelm 
would  to-day  be  in  the  German  Army.  He  is  not 
young,  but  he  is  not  old.  His  arms  and  shoulders  are 
mighty.  But  for  the  accident  of  emigration,  then,  Wil- 
helm, working  to-day  in  the  sun  among  his  Delphi- 
niums and  his  iris,  his  climbing  roses  and  flowering 
shrubs,  would  be  wearing  the  helmet  .of  the  invader ; 
for  his  vine-covered  house  he  would  have  substituted 
a  trench ;  for  his  garden  pick  a  German  rifle. 

For  Wilhelm  was  a  faithful  subject  of  Germany 
while  he  remained  there.  He  is  a  Socialist.  He  does 
not  believe  in  war.  Live  and  help  others  to  live  is 
his  motto.  But  at  the  behest  of  the  Kaiser,  Wilhelm 
too  would  have  gone  to  his  appointed  place. 

It  was  of  Wilhelm  then,  and  others  of  his  kind, 
that  I  thought  as  I  stood  in  the  end  of  the  new-fashion 
trench,  looking  at  the  rabbit  trap.  There  must  be  many 
Wilhelms  in  the  German  Army,  fathers,  good  citizens, 
kindly  men  who  had  no  thought  of  a  place  in  the  sun 
except  for  the  planting  of  a  garden.  Men  who  have 
followed  the  false  gods  of  their  country  with  the 
ardent  blue  eyes  of  supreme  faith. 

I  asked  to  be  taken  home. 

On  the  way  to  the  machine  we  passed  a  mitrailleuse 
buried  by  the  roadside.  Its  location  brought  an  argu- 
ment among  the  officers.  Strategically  it  would  be 
valuable  for  a  time,  but  there  was  some  question  as 
to  its  position  in  view  of  a  retirement  by  tie  French. 


"I  NIBBLE  THEM"  215 

I  could  not  follow  the  argument.  I  did  not  try  to. 
I  was  cold  and  tired,  and  the  red  sunset  had  turned  to 
deep  purple  and  gold.  The  guns  had  ceased.  Over 
all  the  countryside  brooded  the  dreadful  peace  of  sheer 
exhaustion  and  weariness.  And  in  the  air,  high  over- 
head, a  German  plane  sailed  slowly  home. 

Sentries  halted  us  on  the  way  back  holding  high 
lanterns  that  set  the  bayonets  of  their  guns  to  gleam- 
ing. Faces  pressed  to  the  glass,  they  surveyed  us 
stolidly,  making  sure  that  we  were  as  our  passes  de- 
scribed us.  Long  lines  of  marching  men  turned  out 
to  let  us  pass.  As  darkness  settled  down,  the  location 
of  the  German  line,  as  it  encircled  Ypres,  was  plainly 
shown  by  floating  fusees.  In  every  hamlet  reserves 
were  lining  up  for  the  trenches,  dark  masses  of  men, 
with  here  and  there  a  face  thrown  into  relief  as 
a  match  was  held  to  light  a  cigarette.  Open  doors 
showed  warm,  lamp-lit  interiors  and  the  glow  of  fires. 

I  sat  back  in  the  car  and  listened  while  the  officers 
talked  together.  They  were  speaking  of  General  Jof- 
fre,  of  his  great  ability,  of  his  confidence  in  the  out- 
come of  the  war,  and  of  his  method,  during  those 
winter  months  when,  with  such  steady  fighting,  there 
had  been  so  little  apparent  movement.  One  of  the 
officers  told  me  that  General  Joffre  had  put  his  winter 
tactics  in  three  words : 

"I  nibble  them," 


CHAPTER  XX 
DUNKIRK:    FROM    MY   JOURNAL 


T  WAKENED  early  this  morning  and  went  to 
•*•  church — a  great  empty  place,  very  cold  but  with 
the  red  light  of  the  sanctuary  lamp  burning  before  a 
shrine.  There  were  perhaps  a  dozen  people  there  when 
I  went  in.  Before  the  Mater  Dolorosa  two  women  in 
black  were  praying  with  upturned  eyes.  At  the  foot  of 
the  Cross  crouched  the  tragic  figure  of  the  Mother, 
with  her  dead  Son  in  her  arms.  Before  her  were  these 
other  mothers,  praying  in  the  light  of  the  thin  burn- 
ing candles.  Far  away,  near  the  altar,  seven  women 
of  the  Society  of  the  Holy  Rosary  were  conducting  a 
private  service.  They  were  market  women,  elderly, 
plain,  raising  to  the  altar  faces  full  of  faith  and  devo- 
tion, as  they  prayed  for  France  and  for  their  soldier- 
children. 

Here  and  there  was  a  soldier  or  a  sailor  on  his  knees 
on  a  low  prie-dieu,  his  cap  dangling  loose  in  his 
hands.  Unlike  the  women,  the  lips  of  these  men  sel- 
dom moved  in  prayer ;  they  apparently  gazed  in  word- 
less adoration  at  the  shrine.  Great  and  swelling 
thoughts  were  theirs,  no  doubt,  kindled  by  that  tiny 
red  flame :  thoughts  too  big  for  utterance  or  even  for 
form.  To  go  out  and  fight  for  France,  to  drive  back 
the  invaders,  and,  please  God,  to  come  back  again — 
that  was  what  their  faces  said. 

216 


DUNKIRK:  FROM  MY  JOURNAL  217 

Other  people  came  in,  mostly  women,  who  gathered 
silently  around  the  Mater  Dolorosa.  The  great  empty 
Cross;  the  woman  and  the  dead  Christ  at  the  foot  of 
it ;  the  quiet,  kneeling  people  before  it ;  over  all,  as  the 
.services  began,  the  silvery  bell  of  the  Mass;  the  bend- 
'ing  backs  of  the  priests  before  the  altar;  the  sound  of 
fresh,  boyish  voices  singing  in  the  choir — that  is  early 
morning  service  in  the  great  Gothic  church  at  Dunkirk. 

Onto  this  drab  and  grey  and  grieving  picture  came 
the  morning  sunlight,  through  roof-high  windows  of 
red  and  yellow  and  of  that  warm  violet  that  glows 
like  a  jewel.  The  candles  paled  in  the  growing  light. 
A  sailor  near  me  gathered  up  his  cap,  which  had 
fallen  unheeded  to  the  floor,  and  went  softly  out.  The 
private  service  was  over ;  the  market  women  picked  up 
their  baskets  and,  bowing  to  the  altar,  followed  the 
sailor.  The  great  organ  pleaded  and  cried  out.  I  stole 
out.  I  was  an  intruder,  gazing  at  the  grief  of  a  nation. 

It  was  a  transformed  square  that  I  walked  through 
on  my  way  back  to  the  hotel.  It  was  a  market  morn- 
ing. All  week  long  it  had  been  crowded  with  motor 
ambulances,  lorries,  passing  guns.  Orderlies  had  held 
cavalry  horses  under  the  shadow  of  the  statue  in  the 
centre.  The  fried-potato-seller's  van  had  exuded  an 
appetising  odour  of  cooking,  and  had  gathered  round 
it  crowds  of  marines  in  tam-o'-shanters  with  red 
woollen  balls  in  the  centre,  Turcos  in  great  bloomers, 
and  the  always-hungry  French  and  Belgian  troopers. 

Now  all  was  changed.  The  square  had  become  a 
village  filled  with  canvas  houses,  the  striped  red-and^ 
white  booths  of  the  market  people.  War  had  given 
way  to  peace.  For  the  clattering  of  accoutrements 
were  substituted  high-pitched  haggling,  the  cackling  of 
geese  in  crates,  the  squawks  of  chickens  tied  by  the  leg. 


218  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

Little  boys  in  pink-checked  gingham  aprons  ran  about 
or  stood,  feet  apart,  staring  with  frank  curiosity  at  tall 
East  Indians. 

There  were  small  and  carefully  cherished  baskets  of 
eggs  and  bundles  of  dead  Belgian  hares  hung  by  the 
ears,  but  no  other  fresh  meats.  There  was  no  fruit, 
no  fancy  bread.  The  vegetable  sellers  had  only  Brus- 
sels sprouts,  turnips,  beets  and  the  small  round  pota- 
toes of  the  country.  For  war  has  shorn  the  market 
of  its  gaiety.  Food  is  scarce  and  high.  The  flower 
booths  are  offering  country  laces  and  rinding  no  buy- 
ers. The  fruit  sellers  have  only  shrivelled  apples  to 
sell. 

Now,  at  a  little  after  midday,  the  market  is  over. 
The  canvas  booths  have  been  taken  down,  packed  on 
small  handcarts  and  trundled  away;  unsold  merchan- 
dise is  on  its  way  back  to  the  farm  to  wait  for  another 
week  and  another  market.  Already  the  market  square 
has  taken  on  its  former  martial  appearance,  and  Dun- 
kirk is  at  its  midday  meal  of  rabbit  and  Brussels 
sprouts. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
TEA   WITH    THE   AIR-FIGHTERS 


ATER:  Roland  Garros,  the  French  aviator,  has 
•*— '  just  driven  off  a  German  Taube.  They  both 
circled  low  over  the  town  for  some  time.  Then  the 
German  machine  started  east  with  Garros  in  pursuit. 
They  have  gone  out  of  sight. 

War  is  not  all  grey  and  grim  and  hideous.  It  has 
its  lighter  moments.  The  more  terrible  a  situation 
the  more  keen  is  human  nature  to  forget  it  for  a  time. 
Men  play  between  shells  in  the  trenches.  London, 
suffering  keenly,  flocks  to  a  comedy  or  a  farce  as  a  re- 
lief from  strain.  Wounded  men,  past  their  first  agony, 
chaff  each  other  in  the  hospitals.  There  are  long  hours 
behind  the  lines  when  people  have  tea  and  try  to  for- 
get for  a  little  while  what  is  happening  just  ahead. 

Some  seven  miles  behind  the  trenches,  in  that  vague 
"Somewhere  in  France,"  the  British  Army  had  estab- 
lished a  naval  air-station,  where  one  of  its  dirigible 
airships  was  kept.  In  good  weather  the  airship  went 
out  on  reconnoissance.  It  was  not  a  large  airship,  as 
such  things  go,  and  was  formerly  a  training  ship.  Now 
it  was  housed  in  an  extemporised  hangar  that  was  once 
a  carwheel  works,  and  made  its  ascent  from  a  plain 
surrounded  by  barbed  wire. 

The  airship  men  were  extremely  hospitable,  and  I 

219 


220  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

made  several  visits  to  the  station.  On  the  day  of 
which  I  am  about  to  write  I  was  taken  for  an  exhaus- 
tive tour  of  the  premises,  beginning  with  the  hangar 
and  ending  with  tea.  Not  that  it  really  ended  with 
tea.  Tea  was  rather  a  beginning,  leading  to  all  sorts 
of  unexpected  and  surprising  things. 

The  airship  was  out  when  I  arrived,  and  a  group  of 
young  officers  was  watching  it,  a  dot  on  the  horizon 
near  the  front.  They  gave  me  the  glasses,  and  I  saw  it 
plainly — a  long,  yellowish,  slowly  moving  object  that 
turned  as  I  looked  and  headed  back  for  the  station. 

The  group  watched  the  sky  carefully.  A  German 
aeroplane  could  wreck  the  airship  easily.  But  although 
there  were  planes  in  sight  none  was  of  the  familiar 
German  lines. 

It  came  on.  Now  one  could  see  the  car  below.  A 
little  closer  and  three  dots  were  the  men  in  it.  On 
the  sandy  plain  which  is  the  landing  field  were  wait- 
ing the  men  whose  work  it  is  to  warp  the  great  balloon 
into  its  hangar.  The  wind  had  come  up  and  made 
landing  difficult.  It  was  necessary  to  make  two  com- 
plete revolutions  over  the  field  before  coming  down. 
Then  the  blunt  yellow  nose  dipped  abruptly.  The  men 
below  caught  the  ropes,  the  engine  was  cut  off,  and  His 
Majesty's  airship,  in  shape  and  colour  not  unlike  a 
great  pig,  was  safely  at  home  again  and  being  led  to 
the  stable. 

"Do  you  want  to  know  the  bravest  man  in  all  the 
world  ?"  one  of  the  young  officers  said.  "Because  here 
he  is.  The  funny  thing  about  it  is  he  doesn't  know  he 
is  brave." 

That  is  how  I  met  Colonel  M ,  who  is  England's 

greatest  airship  man  and  who  is  in  charge  of  the  naval 
air  station. 


TEA  WITH  THE  AIR-FIGHTERS  221 

"If  you  had  come  a  little  sooner,"  he  said,  "you 
could  have  gone  out  with  us." 

I  was  grateful  but  unenthusiastic.  I  had  seen  the 
officers  watching  the  sky  for  German  planes.  I  had  a 
keen  idea  that  a  German  aviator  overhead,  armed 
with  a  Belgian  block  or  a  bomb  or  a  dart,  could  have 
ripped  that  yellow  envelope  open  from  stem  to  stern, 
and  robbed  American  literature  of  one  of  its  shining 
lights.  Besides,  even  in  times  of  peace  I  am  afraid  to 
look  out  of  a  third-story  window. 

We  made  a  tour  of  the  station,  which  had  been  a 
great  factory  before  the  war  began,  beginning  with  the 
hangar  in  which  the  balloon  was  now  safely  housed. 

Entrance  to  the  station  is  by  means  of  a  bridge  over 
a  canal.  The  bridge  is  guarded  by  sentries  and  the 
password  of  the  day  is  necessary  to  gain  admission. 
East  and  west  along  the  canal  are  canal  boats  that 
have  been  painted  grey  and  have  guns  mounted  on 
them.  Side  by  side  with  these  gunboats  are  the  ordi- 
nary canal  boats  of  the  region,  serving  as  homes  for 
that  part  of  the  populace  which  remains,  with  women 
knitting  on  the  decks  or  hanging  out  lines  of  washing 
overhead. 

The  endless  traffic  of  a  main  highroad  behind  the 
lines  passes  the  station  day  and  night.  Chauffeurs 
drop  in  to  borrow  petrol  or  to  repair  their  cars ;  visiting 
officers  from  other  stations  come  to  watch  the  airship 
perform.  For  England  has  been  slow  to  believe  in 
the  airships,  pinning  her  aeronautical  faith  to  heavier- 
than-air  machines.  She  has  considered  the  great  ex- 
pense for  building  and  upkeep  of  each  of  these  diri- 
gible balloons — as  much  as  that  of  fifty  aeroplanes — 
the  necessity  of  providing  hangars  for  them,  and  their 
vulnerability  to  attack,  as  overbalancing  the  advan- 


222  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

tages  of  long  range,  silence  as  they  drift  with  the  wind 
with  engines  cut  off,  and  Ability  to  hover  over  a  given 
spot  and  thus  launch  aerial  bombs  more  carefully. 

There  is  a  friendly  rivalry  between  the  two  branches 
of  the  air  service,  and  so  far  in  this  war  the  credit  ap- 
parently goes  to  the  aeroplanes.  However,  until  the 
war  is  over,  and  Germany  definitely  states  what  part 
her  Zeppelins  have  had  in  both  sea  and  land  attacks, 
it  will  be  impossible  to  make  any  fair  comparison. 

The  officers  at  the  naval  air  station  had  their  head- 
quarters in  the  administration  building  of  the  factory, 
a  long  brick  building  facing  the  road.  Here  in  a 
long  room  with  western  windows  they  rested  and  re- 
laxed, dined  and  talked  between  their  adventurous 
excursions  to  the  lines. 

Day  by  day  these  men  went  out,  some  in  the  airship 
for  a  reconnoissance,  others  to  man  observation  bal- 
loons. Day  by  day  it  was  uncertain  who  would 
come  back. 

But  they  were  very  cheerful.  Officers  with  an  hour 
to  spare  came  up  from  the  gunboats  in  the  canal  to 
smoke  a  pipe  by  the  fire.  Once  in  so  often  a  woman 
came,  stopping  halfway  her  frozen  journey  to  a  soup 
kitchen  or  a  railroad  station,  where  she  looked  after 
wounded  soldiers,  to  sit  in  the  long  room  and  thaw 
out;  visiting  officers  from  other  parts  of  the  front 
dropped  in  for  a  meal,  sure  of  a  welcome  and  a  warm 
fire.  As  compared  with  the  trenches,  or  even  with  the 
gunboats  on  the  canal,  the  station  represented  cheer, 
warmth;  even,  after  the  working  daylight  hours,  so- 
ciety. 

There  were  several  buildings.  Outside  near  the 
bridge  was  the  wireless  building,  where  an  operator  sat 
all  the  time  with  his  receivers  over  his  ears.  Not  far 


TEA  WITH  THE  AIR-FIGHTERS  223 

from  the  main  group  was  the  great  hangar  of  the 
airship,  and  to  that  we  went  first.  The  hangar  had 
been  a  machine  shop  with  a  travelling  crane.  It  had 
been  partially  cleared  but  the  crane  still  towered  at 
one  end.  High  above  it,  reached  by  a  ladder,  wa? 
a  door. 

The  young  captain  of  the  airship  pointed  up  to  it. 

"My  apartments!"  he  said. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  sleep  here  ?"  I  asked. 
For  the  building  was  bitterly  cold;  one  end  had  been 
knocked  out  to  admit  the  airship,  and  the  wall  had 
been  replaced  by  great  curtains  of  sailcloth  to  keep 
out  the  wind. 

"Of  course,"  he  replied.  "I  am  always  within  call. 
There  are  sentries  also  to  guard  the  ship.  It  would  be 
very  easy  to  put  it  out  of  commission." 

The  construction  of  the  great  balloon  was  explained 
to  me  carefully.  It  was  made  of  layer  after  layer  of 
gold-beater's  skin  and  contained  two  ballonets — a 
small  ship  compared  to  the  Zeppelins,  and  non-rigid  in 
type. 

Underneath  the  great  cigar-shaped  bag  hangs  an 
aluminum  car  which  carries  a  crew  of  three  men. 
The  pilot  sits  in  front  at  a  wheel  that  resembles  the 
driving  wheel  of  an  automobile.  Just  behind  him  is 
the  observer,  who  also  controls  the  wireless.  The  en- 
gineer is  the  third  man. 

The  wireless  puzzled  me.  "Do  you  mean  that 
when  you  go  out  on  scouting  expeditions  you  can 
communicate  with  the  station  here?"  I  asked. 

"It  is  quite  possible.  But  when  the  airship  goes 
out  a  wireless  van  accompanies  it,  following  along 
the  roads.  Messages  are  picked  up  by  the  van  and  by 
a  telephone  connection  sent  to  the  various  batteries." 


224  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

It  may  be  well  to  mention  again  the  airship  chart 
system  by  which  the  entire  region  is  numbered  and 
lettered  in  small  squares.  Black  lines  drawn  across 
the  detail  map  of  the  neighbourhood  divide  it  into  let- 
tered squares,  A,  B,  C,  and  so  forth,  and  these  lettered 
squares  are  again  subdivided  into  four  small  squares, 
i,  2,  3,  4.  Thus  the  direction  B  4,  or  N  2,  is  a  very 
specific  one  in  directing  the  fire  of  a  battery. 

"Did  you  accomplish  much  to-day?"  I  inquired. 

"Not  as  much  as  usual.  There  is  a  ground  haze," 

replied  Colonel  M ,  who  had  been  the  observer  in 

that  day's  flight.  "Down  here  it  is  not  so  noticeable, 
but  from  above  it  obscures  everything." 

He  explained  the  difficulties  of  the  airship  builder, 
the  expense  and  tendency  to  "pinholes"  of  gold-beaters' 
skin,  the  curious  fact  that  chemists  had  so  far  failed 
to  discover  a  gasproof  varnish. 

"But  of  course,"  he  said,  "those  things  will  come. 
The  airship  is  the  machine  of  the  future.  Its  stability, 
its  power  to  carry  great  weights,  point  to  that.  The 
difference  between  an  airship  and  an  aeroplane  is  the 
difference  between  a  battleship  and  a  submarine.  Each 
has  its  own  field  of  usefulness." 

All  round  lay  great  cylinders  of  pure  hydrogen,  used 
for  inflating  the  balloon.  Smoking  in  the  hangar  was 
forbidden.  The  incessant  wind  rattled  the  great 
:anvas  curtains  and  whistled  round  the  rusting  crane. 
From  the  shop  next  door  came  the  hammering  of 
machines,  for  the  French  Government  has  put  the  mill 
to  work  again. 

We  left  the  hangar  and  walked  past  the  machine 
shop.  Halfway  along  one  of  its  sides  a  tall  lieutenant 
pointed  to  a  small  hole  in  the  land,  leading  under  the 
building. 


TEA  WITH  THE  AIR-FIGHTERS          225 

"The  French  government  has  sent  here,"  he  said, 
"the  men  who  are  unfit  for  service  in  the  army.  Day 
by  day,  as  German  aeroplanes  are  seen  overhead,  the 
alarm  is  raised  in  the  shop.  The  men  are  panic- 
stricken.  If  there  are  a  dozen  alarms  they  do  the  same 
thing.  They  rush  out  like  frightened  rabbits,  throw 
themselves  flat  on  the  sand,  and  wriggle  through  that 
hole  into  a  cave  that  they  have  dug  underneath.  It  is 
hysterically  funny;  they  all  try  to  get  in  at  the  same 
time." 

I  had  hoped  to  see  the  thing  happen  myself.  But 
when,  late  that  afternoon,  a  German  aeroplane  actually 
flew  over  the  station,  the  works  had  closed  down  for 
the  day  and  the  men  were  gone.  It  was  disappoint- 
ing. 

Between  the  machine  shop  and  the  administration 
building  is  a  tall  water  tower.  On  top  of  this  are  two 
observers  who  watch  the  sky  day  and  night.  An  anti- 
aircraft gun  is  mounted  there  and  may  be  swung  to 
command  any  portion  of  the  sky.  This  precaution  is 
necessary,  for  the  station  has  been  the  object  of  fre- 
quent attacks.  The  airship  itself  has  furnished  a 
tempting  mark  to  numerous  German  airmen.  Its  best 
speed  is  forty  miles  an  hour,  so  they  are  able  to  circle 
about  it  and  attack  it  from  various  directions.  As  it 
has  only  two  ballonets,  a  single  shot,  properly  placed, 
could  do  it  great  damage.  The  Zeppelin,  with  its  eight- 
een great  gasbags,  can  suffer  almost  any  amount  of 
attack  and  still  remain  in  the  air. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  the  trenches?"  said  one  of 
the  officers,  smiling. 

"Trenches?     Seven  miles  behind  the  line?" 

"Trenches  certainly.  If  the  German  drive  breaks 
through  it  will  come  along  this  road." 


226  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

"But  I  thought  you  lived  in  the  administration 
building?" 

"Some  of  us  must  hold  the  trenches,"  he  said  sol- 
emnly. "What  are  six  or  seven  miles  to  the  Ger- 
man Army?  You  should  see  the  letters  of  sympathy 
we  get  from  home!" 

So  he  showed  me  the  trenches.  They  were  ex- 
tremely nice  trenches,  dug  out  of  the  sand,  it  is  true, 
but  almost  luxurious  for  all  that,  more  like  rooms 
than  ditches,  with  board  shelves  and  dishes  on  the 
shelves,  egg  cups  and  rows  of  shining  glasses,  silver 
spoons,  neat  little  folded  napkins,  and,  though  the 
beds  were  on  the  floor,  extremely  tidy  beds  of  mat- 
tresses and  warm  blankets.  The  floor  was  boarded 
over.  There  was  a  chair  or  two,  and  though  I  will 
not  swear  to  pictures  on  the  walls  there  were  cer- 
tainly periodicals  and  books.  Outside  the  door  was 
a  sort  of  vestibule  of  boards  which  had  been  built  to 
keep  the  wind  out. 

"You  see!"  said  the  young  officer  with  twinkling 
eyes.  "But  of  course  this  is  war.  One  must  put  up 
with  things!" 

Nevertheless  it  was  a  real  trench,  egg  cups  and  rows 
of  shining  glasses  and  electric  light  and  all.  It  was 
there  for  a  purpose.  In  front  of  it  was  a  great  barbed- 
wire  barricade.  Strategically  it  commanded  the  main 
road  over  which  the  German  Army  must  pass  to  reach 
the  point  it  has  been  striving  for.  Only  seven  miles 
away  along  that  road  it  was  straining  even  then  for 
the  onward  spring  movement.  Any  day  now,  and 
that  luxurious  trench  may  be  the  scene  of  grim  and 
terrible  fighting. 

And,  more  than  that,  these  men  at  the  station  were 
not  waiting  for  danger  to  come  to  them.  Day  after 


TEA  WITH  THE  AIR-FIGHTERS          227 

day  they  were  engaged  in  the  most  perilous  business 
of  the  war. 

At  this  station  some  of  the  queer  anomalies  of  a 
volunteer  army  were  to  be  found.  So  strongly 
ingrained  in  the  heart  of  the  British  youth  of  good 
family  is  the  love  of  country,  that  when  he  is  unable 
to  get  his  commission  he  goes  in  any  capacity.  I 
heard  of  a  little  chap,  too  small  for  the  regular  serv- 
ice, who  has  gone  to  the  front  as  a  cook!  His  uncle 
sits  in  the  House  of  Lords.  And  here,  at  this  naval 
air  station,  there  were  young  noncommissioned  officers 
who  were  Honourables,  and  who  were  trying  their 
best  to  live  it  down.  One  such  youth  was  in  charge 
of  the  great  van  that  is  the  repair  shop  for  the  airship. 
Others  were  in  charge  of  the  wireless  station.  One 
met  them  everywhere,  clear-eyed  young  Englishmen 
ready  and  willing  to  do  anything,  no  matter  what, 
and  proving  every  moment  of  their  busy  day  the  es- 
sential democracy  of  the  English  people. 

As  we  went  into  the  administration  building  that 
afternoon  two  things  happened:  The  observers  in 
the  water  tower  reported  a  German  aeroplane  coming' 
toward  the  station,  and  a  young  lieutenant,  who  had 
gone  to  the  front  in  a  borrowed  machine,  reported 
that  he  had  broken  the  wind  shield  of  the  machine. 
There  are  plenty  of  German  aeroplanes  at  that  British 
airship  station,  but  few  wind  shields.  The  aeroplane 
was  ignored,  but  the  wind  shield  was  loudly  and  acri- 
moniously discussed. 

The  day  was  cold  and  had  turned  grey  and  lower- 
ing. It  was  pleasant  after  our  tour  of  the  station  to 
go  into  the  long  living  room  and  sit  by  the  fire.  But 
the  fire  smoked.  One  after  another  those  dauntless 
British  officers  attacked  it,  charged  with  poker,  almost 


228  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

with  bayonet,  and  retired  defeated.  So  they  closed  it 
up  finally  with  a  curious  curved  fire  screen  and  let  it 
alone.  It  was  ten  minutes  after  I  began  looking  at 
the  fire  screen  before  I  recognised  it  for  what  it  was — • 
ithe  hood  from  an  automobile! 

Along  one  side  of  the  wall  was  a  piano.  It  had 
been  brought  back  from  a  ruined  house  at  the  front. 
It  was  rather  a  poor  piano  and  no  one  had  any  music, 
but  some  of  the  officers  played  a  little  by  ear.  The  top 
of  the  piano  was  held  up  by  a  bandage !  It  was  a  piano 
of  German  make,  and  the  nameplate  had  been 
wrenched  off! 

A  long  table  filled  the  centre  of  the  room.  One  end 
formed  the  press  censorship  bureau,  for  it  was  part 
of  the  province  of  the  station  to  censor  and  stamp 
letters  going  out.  The  other  end  was  the  dining  table. 
Over  the  fireplace  on  the  mantel  was  a  baby's  shoe, 
a  little  brown  shoe  picked  up  on  the  street  o£  a  town 
that  was  being  destroyed. 

Beside  it  lay  an  odd  little  parachute  of  canvas  with 
a  weighted  letter-carrier  beneath.  One  of  the  officers 
saw  me  examining  it  and  presented  it  to  me,  as  it 
was  worn  and  past  service. 

"Now  and  then,"  he  explained,  "it  is  impossible  to 
use  the  wireless,  for  one  reason  or  another.  In  that 
case  a  message  can  be  dropped  by  means  of  the  para- 
chute." 

I  brought  the  message-carrier  home  with  me.  On 
its  weighted  canvas  bag  is  written  in  ink:  "Urgent! 
You  are  requested  to  forward  this  at  once  to  the 
inclosed  address.  From  His  Majesty's  airship ."• 

The  sight  of  the  press-censor  stamp  reminded  an 
English  officer,  who  had  lived  in  Belgium,  of  the  way 
letters  to  and  from  interned  Belgians  have  been  taken 


TEA  WITH  THE  AIR-FIGHTERS  229 

over  the  frontier  into  Holland  and  there  dispatched. 
Men  who  are  willing  to  risk  their  lives  for  money  col- 
lect these  letters.  At  one  time  the  price  was  as  high 
as  two  hundred  francs  for  each  one.  When  enough 
have  been  gathered  together  to  make  the  risk  worth 
while  the  bearer  starts  on  his  journey.  He  must  slip 
through  the  sentry  lines  disguised  as  a  workman,  or 
perhaps  by  crawling  through  the  barbed  wire  at  the 
barrier.  For  fear  of  capture  some  of  these  bearers, 
working  their  way  through  the  line  at  night,  have 
dragged  their  letters  behind  them,  so  that  in  case  of 
capture  they  could  drop  the  cord  and  be  found  without 
incriminating  evidence  on  them.  For  taking  letters 
into  Belgium  the  process  is  naturally  reversed.  But 
letters  are  sent,  not  to  names,  but  to  numbers.  The 
bearer  has  a  list  of  numbers  which  correspond  to  cer- 
tain addresses.  Thus,  even  if  he  is  taken  and  the 
letters  are  found  on  him,  their  intended  recipients  will 
not  be  implicated.  I  saw  a  letter  which  had  been  re- 
ceived in  this  way  by  a  Belgian  woman.  It  was  ad- 
dressed simply  to  Number  Twenty-eight. 

The  fire  was  burning  better  behind  its  automobile 
hood.  An  orderly  had  brought  in  tea,  white  bread, 
butter,  a  pitcher  of  condensed  cream,  and  an  English 
teacake.  We  gathered  round  the  tea  table.  War 
seemed  a  hundred  miles  away.  Except  for  the  blue 
uniforms  and  brass  buttons  of  the  officers  who  be- 
longed to  the  naval  air  service,  the  orderly's  khaki 
and  the  bayonet  from  a  gun  used  casually  at  the  other 
end  of  the  table  as  a  paperweight,  it  was  an  ordinary 
English  tea. 


CHAPTER  XXII 
THE  WOMEN  AT  THE  FRONT 


T  T  was  commencing  to  rain  outside.  The  rain  beat 
•*•  on  the  windows  and  made  even  the  reluctant  fire 
seem  cosy.  Some  one  had  had  a  box  of  candy  sent 
from  home.  It  was  brought  out  and  presented  with  a 
flourish. 

"It  is  frightful,  this  life  in  the  trenches!"  said  the 
young  officer  who  passed  it  about. 

Shortly  afterward  the  party  was  increased.  An 
orderly  came  in  and  announced  that  an  Englishwoman, 
whose  automobile  had  broken  down,  was  standing  on 
the  bridge  over  the  canal  and  asked  to  be  admitted. 
She  did  not  know  the  password  and  the  sentry  refused 
to  let  her  pass  by. 

One  of  the  officers  went  out  and  returned  in  a  few 
moments  with  a  small  lady  much  wrapped  in  veils  and 
extremely  wet.    She  stood  blinking  in  the  doorway  in 
the  accustomed  light.     She  was  recognised  at  once  asi,, 
a  well-known  English  novelist  who  is  conducting  a>, 
soup  kitchen  at  a  railroad  station  three  miles  behind 
the  Belgian  front. 

"A  car  was  to  have  picked  me  up,"  she  said,  "but 
I  have  walked  and  walked  and  it  has  not  come.  And 
I  am  so  cold.  Is  that  tea?  And  may  I  come  to  the 
fire?" 

So  they  settled  her  comfortably,  with  her  feet 
230 


THE  WOMEN  AT  THE  FRONT  231 

thrust  out  to  the  blaze,  and  gave  her  hot  tea  and 
plenty  of  bread  and  butter. 

"It  is  like  the  Mad  Hatter's  tea  party  in  Alice  in 
Wonderland,"  said  one  of  the  officers  gaily.  "When 
any  fresh  person  drops  in  we  just  move  up  one  place." 

The  novelist  sipped  her  tea  and  told  me  about  her 
soup  kitchen. 

"It  is  so  very  hard  to  get  things  to  put  into  the 
soup,"  she  said.  "Of  course  I  have  no  car,  and  now 
with  the  new  law  that  no  women  are  to  be  allowed 
in  military  cars  I  hardly  know  what  to  do." 

"Will  you  tell  me  just  what  you  do?"  I  asked. 
So  she  told  me,  and  later  I  saw  her  soup  kitchen. 

"Men  come  in  from  the  front,"  she  explained,  "in- 
jured and  without  food.  Often  they  have  had  noth- 
ing to  eat  for  a  long  time.  We  make  soup  of  what- 
ever meat  we  can  find  and  any  vegetables,  and  as  the 
hospital  trains  come  in  we  carry  it  out  to  the  men. 
They  are  so  very  grateful  for  it." 

That  was  to  be  an  exceptional  afternoon  at  the 
naval  air-station.  For  hardly  had  the  novelist  been 
settled  with  her  tea  when  two  very  attractive  but 
strangely  attired  young  women  came  into  the  room. 
They  nodded  to  the  officers,  whom  they  knew,  and 
went  at  once  to  the  business  which  had  brought  them. 

"Can  you  lend  us  a  car?"  they  asked.  "Ours  has 
gone  off  the  road  into  the  mud,  and  it  looks  as  though 
it  would  never  move  again." 

That  was  the  beginning  of  a  very  strange  evening, 
almost  an  extraordinary  evening.  For  while  the  novel- 
ist was  on  her  way  back  to  peace  these  young  women 
were  on  their  way  home. 

And  home  to  them  was  one  room  of  a  shattered 
house  directly  on  the  firing  line. 


232  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

Much  has  been  said  about  women  at  the  front. 
As  far  as  I  know  at  that  time  there  were  only  two 
women  absolutely  at  the   front.     Nurses  as  a  rule 
are  kept  miles  behind  the  line.    Here  and  there  a  soup 
kitchen,  like  that  just  spoken  of,  has  held  its  cour-- 
ageous  place  three  or  four  miles  back  along  the  line?' 
of  communication. 

I  have  said  that  they  were  extraordinarily  dressed. 
Rather  they  were  most  practically  dressed.  Under 
khaki-coloured  leather  coats  these  two  young  women 
wore  khaki  riding  breeches  with  puttees  and  flannel 
shirts.  They  had  worn  nothing  else  for  six  months. 
They  wore  knitted  caps  on  their  heads,  for  the  weather 
was  extremely  cold,  and  mittens. 

The  fire  was  blazing  high  and  we  urged  them  to 
take  off  their  outer  wraps.  For  a  reason  which 
we  did  not  understand  at  the  time  they  refused. 
They  sat  with  their  leather  coats  buttoned  to  the 
throat,  and  coloured  violently  when  urged  to  remove 
them. 

"But  what  are  you  doing  here?"  said  one  of  the 
officers.  "What  brings  you  so  far  from  P " 

They  said  they  had  had  an  errand,  and  went  on 
drinking  tea, 

"What  sort  of  an  errand?"  a  young  lieutenant  de- 
manded. 

They  exchanged  glances. 

"Shopping,"  they  said,  and  took  more  tea. 

"Shopping,  for  what?"  He  was  smilingly  imper- 
tinent. 

They  hesitated.  Then :  "For  mutton,"  one  of  them 
replied.  Both  looked  relieved.  Evidently  the  mutton 
was  an  inspiration.  "We  have  found  some  mutton." 
They  turned  to  me.  "It  is  a  real  festival.  You  have 


THE  WOMEN  AT  THE  FRONT  233 

no  idea  how  long  it  is  since  we've  had  anything  of  the 
sort." 

"Mutton!"  cried  the  novelist,  with  frankly  greedy 
eyes.  "It  makes  wonderful  soup!  Where  can  I  get 
it?" 

They  told  her,  and  she  stood  up,  tied  on  her  seven 
veils  and  departed,  rejoicing,  in  a  car  that  had  come 
for  her. 

When  she  was  gone  Colonel  M turned  to  one  of 

the  young  women. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "out  with  it.  What  brings  you 
both  so  far  from  your  thriving  and  prosperous  little 
community  ?" 

The  irony  of  that  was  lost  on  me  until  later,  when 
I  discovered  that  the  said  community  was  a  destroyed 
town  with  the  advance  line  of  trenches  running 
through  it,  and  that  they  lived  in  the  only  two  whole 
rooms  in  the  place. 

"Out  with  it,"  said  the  colonel,  and  scowled  fero- 
ciously. 

Driven  into  a  corner  they  were  obliged  to  confess. 
For  three  hours  that  afternoon  they  had  stood  in  a 
freezing  wind  on  a  desolate  field,  while  King  Albert 
of  Belgium  decorated  for  bravery  various  officers  and 
• — themselves.  The  jealously  fastened  coats  were 
thrown  open.  Gleaming  on  the  breast  of  each  young 
woman  was  the  star  of  the  Order  of  Leopold! 

"But  why  did  you  not  tell  us?"  the  officers  de- 
manded. 

"Because,"  was  the  retort,  "you  have  never  approved 
of  us;  you  have  always  wanted  us  sent  back  to  Eng- 
land. The  whole  British  Army  has  objected  to  our 
being  where  we  are." 

"Much  good  the  objecting  has  done!"   grumbled 


234  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

the  officers.  But  in  their  hearts  they  were  very 
proud. 

Originally  there  had  been  three  in  this  valiant  little 
group  of  young  aristocrats  who  have  proved  as  true 
as  their  brothers  to  the  traditions  of  their  race.  The 
third  one  was  the  daughter  of  an  earl.  She,  too,  had 
been  decorated.  But  she  had  gone  to  a  little  town 
near  by  a  day  or  two  before. 

"But  what  do  you  do?"  I  asked  one  of  these  young 
women.  She  was  drawing  on  her  mittens  ready  to 
start  for  their  car. 

"Sick  and  sorry  work,"  she  said  briefly.  "You 
know  the  sort  of  thing.  I  wish  you  would  come  out 
and  have  dinner  with  us.  There  is  to  be  mutton." 

I  accepted  promptly,  but  it  was  the  situation  and 
not  the  mutton  that  appealed  to  me.  It  was  arranged 
that  they  should  go  ahead  and  set  things  in  motion 
for  the  meal,  and  that  I  should  follow  later. 

At  the  door  one  of  them  turned  and  smiled  at  me. 

"They  are  shelling  the  village,"  she  said.  "You 
don't  mind,  do  you?" 

"Not  at  all,"  I  replied.  And  I  meant  it.  For  I  was 
no  longer  so  gun-shy  as  I  had  been  earlier  in  the 
winter.  I  had  got  over  turning  pale  at  the  slamming 
of  a  door.  I  was  as  terrified,  perhaps,  but  my  pride 
had  come  to  my  aid. 

It  was  the  English  officers  who  disapproved  so 
thoroughly  who  told  me  about  them  when  they  had 
gone. 

"Of  course  they  have  no  business  there,"  they  said. 
"It's  a  frightful  responsibility  to  place  on  the  men  at 
that  part  of  the  line.  But  there's  no  question  about 
the  value  of  what  they  are  doing,  and  if  they  want 
to  stay  they  deserve  to  be  allowed  to.  They  go  right 


THE  WOMEN  AT  THE  FRONT  23$ 

into  the  trenches,  and  they  take  care  of  the  wounded 
until  the  ambulances  can  come  up  at  night.  Wait 
until  you  see  their  house  and  you  will  understand 
why  they  got  those  medals." 

And  when  I  had  seen  their  house  and  spent  an 
evening  with  them  I  understood  very  well  indeed. 

We  gathered  round  the  fire;  conversation  was  des- 
ultory. Muddy  and  weary  young  officers,  who  had 
been  at  the  front  all  day,  came  in  and  warmed  them- 
selves for  a  moment  before  going  up  to  their  cold 
rooms.  The  owner  of  the  broken  wind  shield  arrived 
and  was  placated.  Continuous  relays  of  tea  were 

coming  and  going.  Colonel ,  who  had  been  in 

an  observation  balloon  most  of  the  day,  spoke  of  bal- 
loon sickness. 

"I  have  been  in  balloons  of  one  sort  and  another 
for  twenty  years,"  he  said.  "I  never  overcome  the 
nausea.  Very  few  airmen  do." 

I  spoke  to  him  about  a  recent  night  attack  by 
German  aviators. 

"It  is  remarkable  work,"  he  commented  warmly, 
"hazardous  in  the  extreme;  and  if  anything  goes 
wrong  they  cannot  see  where  they  are  coming  down. 
Even  when  they  alight  in  their  own  lines,  landing 
safely  is  difficult.  They  are  apt  to  wreck  their  ma- 
chines." 

The  mention  of  German  aeroplanes  reminded  one 
of  the  officers  of  an  experience  he  had  had  just  behind 
the  firing  line. 

"I  had  been  to  the  front,"  he  said,  "and  a  mile  or 
so  behind  the  line  a  German  aeroplane  overtook  the 
automobile.  He  flew  low,  with  the  evident  intention 
of  dropping  a  bomb  on  us.  The  chauffeur,  becoming 
excited,  stalled  the  engine.  At  that  moment  the  avia- 


236  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

tor  dropped  the  first  bomb,  killing  a  sow  and  a  litter 
of  young  pigs  beside  the  car  and  breaking  all  the 
glass.  Cranking  failed  to  start  the  car.  It  was  neces- 
sary, while  the  machine  manoeuvred  to  get  overhead 
again,  to  lift  the  hood  of  the  engine,  examine  a  spark- 
plug and  then  crank  the  car.  He  dropped  a  second^ 
bomb  which  fell  behind  the  car  and  made  a  hole  in 
the  road.  Then  at  last  the  engine  started,  and  it  took 
us  a  very  short  time  to  get  out  of  that  neighbour- 
hood." 

The  car  he  spoke  of  was  the  car  in  which  I  had 
come  out  to  the  station.  I  could  testify  that  something 
had  broken  the  glass! 

One  of  the  officers  had  just  received  what  he  said 
were  official  percentages  of  casualties  in  killed, 
wounded  and  missing  among  the  Allies,  to  the  first  of 
February. 

The  Belgian  percentage  was  662-3,  the  English 
33  1-3,  and  the  French  7.  I  have  no  idea  how  accurate 
the  figures  were,  or  his  authority  for  them.  He  spoke 
of  them  as  official.  From  casualties  to  hospitals  and 
nurses  was  but  a  step.  I  spoke  warmly  of  the  work 
the  nurses  near  the  front  were  doing.  But  one  officer 
disagreed  with  me,  although  in  the  main  his  views 
were  not  held  by  the  others. 

"The  nurses  at  the  base  hospitals  should  be  changed 
every  three  months,"  he  said.  "They  get  the  worst 
cases  there,  in  incredible  conditions.  After  a  time  it 
tells  on  them.  I've  seen  it  in  a  number  of  cases.  They 
grow  calloused  to  suffering.  That's  the  time  to  bring 
up  a  new  lot." 

I  think  he  is  wrong.  I  have  seen  many  hospitals, 
many  nurses.  If  there  is  a  change  in  the  nurses  after 
a  time,  it  is  that,  like  the  soldiers  in  the  field,  they 


THE  WOMEN  AT  THE  FRONT  237 

develop  a  philosophy  which  carries  them  through  their 
terrible  days.  "What  must  be,  must  be,"  say  the  men 
in  the  trenches.  "What  must  be,  must  be,"  say  the 
nurses  in  the  hospital.  And  both  save  themselves  from 
madness. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
THE  LITTLE  "SICK  AND  SORRY"  HOUSE 


A  ND  now  it  was  seven  o'clock,  and  raining.  Din- 
•*-  *•  ner  was  to  be  at  eight.  I  had  before  me  a  drive 
of  nine  miles  along  those  slippery  roads.  It  was  dark 
and  foggy,  with  the  ground  mist  of  Flanders  turning 
to  a  fog.  The  lamps  of  the  car  shining  into  it  made 
us  appear  to  be  riding  through  a  milky  lake.  Progress 
was  necessarily  slow. 

One  of  the  English  officers  accompanied  me. 

"I  shall  never  forget  the  last  time  I  dined  out  here/' 
he  said  as  we  jolted  along.  "There  is  a  Belgian  bat- 
tery just  behind  the  house.  All  evening  as  we  sat 
and  talked  I  thought  the  battery  was  firing ;  the  house 
shook  under  tremendous  concussion.  Every  now  and 

then  Mrs.  K or  Miss  C would  get  up  and 

go  out,  coming  back  a  few  moments  later  and  joining 
calmly  in  the  conversation. 

"Not  until  I  started  back  did  I  know  that  we  had 
been  furiously  bombarded,  that  the  noise  I  had  heard 
was  shells  breaking  all  about  the  place.  A  'coal-box/ 
as  they  call  them  here,  had  fallen  in  the  garden  and 
dug  a  great  hole !" 

"And  when  the  young  ladies  went  out,  were  they 
watching  the  bombs  burst?"  I  inquired. 

"Not  at  all,"  he  said.     "They  went  out  to  go  into 
1     238 


THE  LITTLE  "SICK  AND  SORRY"  HOUSE    239 

the  trenches  to  attend  to  the  wounded.    They  do  it  all 
the  time." 

"And  they  said  nothing  about  it !" 

"They  thought  we  knew.  As  for  going  into  the 
trenches,  that  is  what  they  are  there  to  do." 

My  enthusiasm  for  mutton  began  to  fade.  I  felt 
convinced  that  I  should  not  remain  calm  if  a  shell  fell 
into  the  garden.  But  again,  as  happened  many  times 
during  those  eventful  weeks  at  the  front,  my  pride 
refused  to  allow  me  to  turn  back.  And  not  for  any- 
thing in  the  world  would  I  have  admitted  being  afraid 
to  dine  where  those  two  young  women  were  willing 
to  eat  and  sleep  and  have  their  being  day  and  night 
for  months. 

"But  of  course,"  I  said,  "they  are  well  protected, 
even  if  they  are  at  the  trenches.  That  is,  the  Germans 
never  get  actually  into  the  town." 

"Oh,  don't  they?"  said  the  officer.  "That  town  has 
been  taken  by  the  Germans  five  times  and  lost  as 
many.  A  few  nights  ago  they  got  over  into  the  main 
street  and  there  was  terrific  hand-to-hand  fighting." 

"Where  do  they  go  at  such  times  ?"  I  asked. 

"I  never  thought  about  it.  I  suppose  they  get  into 
the  cellar.  But  if  they  do  it  is  not  at  all  because  they 
are  afraid." 

We  went  on,  until  some  five  of  the  nine  miles  had 
been  traversed. 

I  have  said  before  that  the  activity  at  the  from; 
commences  only  with  the  falling  of  night.  During 
the  day  the  zone  immediately  back  of  the  trenches  is 
a  dead  country  But  at  night  it  wakens  into  activity. 
Soldiers  leave  the  trenches  and  fresh  soldiers  take 
their  places,  ammunition  and  food  are  brought  up, 
wires  broken  during  the  day  by  shells  are  replaced, 


240  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

ambulances  come  up  and  receive  their  frightful  bur- 
dens. 

Now  we  reached  the  zone  of  night  activity.  A 
travelling  battery  passed  us,  moving  from  one  part  of 
^he  line  to  another ;  the  drivers,  three  to  each  gun,  sat 
rtolidly  on  their  horses,  their  heads  dropped  against 
the  rain.  They  appeared  out  of  the  mist  beside  us, 
stood  in  full  relief  for  a  moment  in  the  glow  of  the 
lamps,  and  were  swallowed  up  again. 

At  three  miles  from  our  destination,  but  only  one 
mile  from  the  German  lines,  it  was  necessary  to  put 
out  the  lamps.  Our  progress,  which  had  been  danger- 
ous enough  before,  became  extremely  precarious.  It 
was  necessary  to  turn  out  for  teams  and  lorries,  for 
guns  and  endless  lines  of  soldiers,  and  to  turn  out  a 
foot  too  far  meant  slipping  into  the  mud.  Two  miles 
and  a  half  from  the  village  we  turned  out  too  far. 

There  was  a  sickening  side  slip.  The  car  turned 
over  to  the  right  at  an  acute  angle  and  there  remained. 
We  were  mired ! 

We  got  out.  It  was  perfectly  dark.  Guns  were 
still  passing  us,  so  that  it  was  necessary  to  warn  the 
drivers  of  our  wrecked  car.  The  road  was  full  of 
shell  holes,  so  that  to  step  was  to  stumble.  The  Ger- 
man lines,  although  a  mile  away,  seemed  very  near. 
Between  the  road  and  the  enemy  was  not  a  tree  or 
a  shrub  or  a  fence — only  the  line  of  the  railway  em- 
bankment which  marked  the  Allies'  trenches.  To  add 
to  the  dismalness  of  the  situation  the  Germans  began 
throwing  the  familiar  magnesium  lights  overhead. 
The  flares  made  the  night  alike  beautiful  and  fearful. 
It  was  possible  when  one  burst  near  to  see  the  entire 
landscape  spread  out  like  a  map — ditches  full  of  water, 
sodden  fields,  shell  holes  in  the  roads  which  had  be- 


THE  LITTLE  "SICK  AND  SORRY"  HOUSE    241 

come  lakes,  the  long  lines  of  poplars  outlining  the  road 
ahead.  At  one  time  no  less  than  twenty  starlights 
hung  in  the  air  at  one  time.  When  they  went  out  the 
inky  night  seemed  blacker  than  ever.  I  stepped  off  the 
road  and  was  almost  knee-deep  in  mud  at  once. 

The  battery  passed,  urging  its  tired  horses  to  such 
speed  as  was  possible.  After  it  came  thousands  of 
men,  Belgian  and  French  mostly,  on  their  way  out  of 
the  trenches. 

We  called  for  volunteers  from  the  line  to  try  to  lift 
the  car  onto  the  road.  But  even  with  twenty  men  at 
the  towing  rope  it  refused  to  move.  The  men  were 
obliged  to  give  it  up  and  run  on  to  catch  their  com- 
panies. 

Between  the  fusees  the  curious  shuffling  of  feet  and 
a  deeper  shadow  were  all  that  told  of  the  passage  of 
these  troops.  It  was  so  dark  that  one  could  see  no 
faces.  But  here  and  there  one  saw  the  light  of  a  ciga- 
rette. The  mere  hardship  of  walking  for  miles  along 
those  roads,  paved  with  round  stones  and  covered  with 
mud  on  which  their  feet  slipped  continually,  must  have 
been  a  great  one,  and  agonizing  for  feet  that  had  been 
frosted  in  the  water  of  the  trenches. 

Afterward  I  inquired  what  these  men  carried. 
They  loomed  up  out  of  the  night  like  pack  horses.  I 
found  that  each  soldier  carried,  in  addition  to  his  rifle 
and  bayonet,  a  large  knapsack,  a  canteen,  a  cartridge 
pouch,  a  brown  haversack  containing  tobacco,  soap, 
towel  and  food,  a  billy-can  and  a  rolled  blanket. 

German  batteries  were  firing  intermittently  as  we 
stood  there.  The  rain  poured  down.  I  had  dressed  to 
go  out  to  tea  and  wore  my  one  and  only  good  hat. 
I  did  the  only  thing  that  seemed  possible — I  took  off 
that  hat  and  put  it  in  the  automobile  and  let  the  rain 


242  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

fall  on  my  unprotected  head.  The  hat  had  to  see  me 
through  the  campaign,  and  my  hair  would  stand  water. 

At  last  an  armoured  car  came  along  and  pulled  the 
automobile  onto  the  road.  But  after  a  progress  of 
only  ten  feet  it  lapsed  again,  and  there  remained. 

The  situation  was  now  acute.  It  was  impossible  to 
go  back,  and  to  go  ahead  meant  to  advance  on  foot 
along  roads  crowded  with  silent  soldiers — meant  go- 
ing forward,  too,  in  a  pouring  rain  and  in  high-heeled 
shoes.  For  that  was  another  idiocy  I  had  committed. 

We  started  on,  leaving  the  apologetic  chauffeur  by 
the  car.  A  few  feet  and  the  road,  curving  to  the  right, 
began  to  near  the  German  line.  Every  now  and  then 
it  was  necessary  to  call  sharply  to  the  troops,  or  strug- 
gling along  through  the  rain  they  would  have  crowded 
us  off  knee-deep  into  the  mud. 

"Attention!"  the  officer  would  call  sharply.  And 
for  a  time  we  would  have  foot  room.  There  were  no 
more  horses,  no  more  guns — only  men,  men,  men. 
Some  of  them  had  taken  off  their  outer  coats  and  put 
them  shawl-fashion  over  their  heads.  But  most  of 
them  walked  stolidly  on,  already  too  wet  and  wretched 
to  mind  the  rain. 

The  fog  had  lifted.  It  was  possible  to  see  that 
sinister  red  streak  that  follows  the  firing  of  a  gun  at 
night.  The  rain  gave  a  peculiar  hollowness  to  the 
concussion.  The  Belgian  and  French  batteries  were 
silent. 

We  seemed  to  have  walked  endless  miles,  and  still 
there  was  no  little  town.  We  went  over  a  bridge, 
and  on  its  flat  floor  I  stopped  and  rested  my  aching 
feet. 

"Only  a  little  farther  now,"  said  the  British  officer 
cheerfully. 


THE  LITTLE  "SICK  AND  SORRY"  HOUSE    243 

"How  much  farther?" 

"Not  more  than  a  mile." 

By  way  of  cheering  me  he  told  me  about  the  town 
we  were  approaching — how  the  road  we  were  on  was 
its  main  street,  and  that  the  advanced  line  of  trenches 
crossed  at  the  railroad  near  the  foot  of  the  street. 

"And  how  far  from  that  are  the  German  trenches  ?" 
I  asked  nervously. 

"Not  very  far,"  he  said  blithely.  "Near  enough  to 
be  interesting." 

On  and  on.    Here  was  a  barn. 

"Is  this  the  town?"  I  asked  feebly. 

"Not  yet.    A  little  farther !" 

I  was  limping,  drenched,  irritable.  But  now  and 
then  the  absurdity  of  my  situation  overcame  me  and 
I  laughed.  Water  ran  down  my  head  and  off  my  nose, 
trickled  down  my  neck  under  my  coat.  I  felt  like  a 
great  sponge.  And  suddenly  I  remembered  my  hat. 

"I  feel  sure,"  I  said,  stopping  still  in  the  road, 
"that  the  chauffeur  will  go  inside  the  car  out  of  the 
rain  and  sit  on  my  hat." 

The  officer  thought  this  very  likely.  I  felt  extremely 
bitter  about  it.  The  more  I  thought  of  it  the  more  I 
was  convinced  that  he  was  exactly  the  sort  of  chauf- 
feur who  would  get  into  a  car  and  sit  on  an  only  hat. 

At  last  we  came  to  the  town — to  what  had  been  a 
town.  It  was  a  town  no  longer.  Walls  without  roofs, 
roofs  almost  without  walls.  Here  and  there  only  a 
chimney  standing  of  what  had  been  a  home;  a  street 
so  torn  up  by  shells  that  walking  was  almost  impossible 
— full  of  shell-holes  that  had  become  graves.  There 
were  now  no  lights,  not  even  soldiers.  In  the  silence 
our  footsteps  re-echoed  against  those  desolate  and 
broken  walls. 


244  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

A  day  or  two  ago  I  happened  on  a  description  of 
this  town,  written  by  a  man  who  had  seen  it  at  the 
time  I  was  there. 

"The  main  street,"  he  writes,  "is  like  a  great  mu- 
seum of  prehistoric  fauna.  The  house  roofs,  denuded 
of  tiles  and  the  joists  left  naked,  have  tilted  forward 
on  to  the  sidewalks,  so  that  they  hang  in  mid-air  like 
giant  vertebras.  .  .,  .  One  house  only  of  the  whole 
village  of had  been  spared." 

We  stumbled  down  the  street  toward  the  trenches 
and  at  last  stopped  before  a  house.  Through  boards 
nailed  across  what  had  once  been  windows  a  few  rays 
of  light  escaped.  There  was  no  roof ;  a  side  wall  and 
an  entire  corner  were  gone.  It  was  the  residence  of 
the  ladies  of  the  decoration. 

Inside  there  was  for  a  moment  an  illusion  of  en- 
tirety. The  narrow  corridor  that  ran  through  the  cen- 
tre of  the  house  was-weatherproof.  But  through  some 
unseen  gap  rushed  the  wind  of  the  night.  At  the 
right,  warm  with  lamplight,  was  the  reception  room, 
dining  room  and  bedroom — one  small  chamber  about 
twelve  by  fifteen! 

What  a  strange  room  it  was,  furnished  with  odds 
and  ends  from  the  shattered  houses  about !  A  bed  in 
the  corner;  a  mattress  on  the  floor;  a  piano  in  front 
of  the  shell-holed  windows,  a  piano  so  badly  cracked 
by  shrapnel  that  panels  of  the  woodwork  were  missing 
and  keys  gone ;  two  or  three  odd  chairs  and  what  had 
once  been  a  bookcase,  and  in  the  centre  a  pine  table 
laid  for  a  meal. 

Mrs.  K ,  whose  uncle  was  a  cabinet  minister, 

was  hurrying  in  with  a  frying-pan  in  her  hand. 

"The  mutton!"  she  said  triumphantly,  and  placed 
it  on  the  table,  frying-pan  and  all.  The  other  lady  of. 


THE  LITTLE  "SICK  AND  SORRY"  HOUSE    245 

the  decoration  followed  with  the  potatoes,  also  in  the 
pan  in  which  they  had  been  cooked. 

We  drew  up  our  chairs,  for  the  mutton  must  not  be 
allowed  to  get  cold. 

"It's  quite  a  party,  isn't  it?"  said  one  of  the  host- 
esses, and  showed  us  proudly  the  dish  of  fruit  on  the 
centre  of  the  table,  flanked  by  bonbons  and  nuts  which 
had  just  been  sent  from  England. 

True,  the  fruit  was  a  little  old  and  the  nuts  were 
few ;  but  they  gave  the  table  a  most  festive  look. 

Some  one  had  taken  off  my  shoes  and  they  were 
drying  by  the  fire,  stuffed  with  paper  to  keep  them  in 
shape.  My  soaking  outer  garments  had  been  carried 
to  the  lean-to  kitchen  to  hang  by  the  stove,  and  dry 
under  the  care  of  a  soldier  servant  who  helped 
with  the  cooking.  I  looked  at  him  curiously.  His 
predecessor  had  been  killed  in  the  room  where  he 
stood. 

The  German  batteries  were  firing,  and  every  now 
and  then  from  the  trenches  at  the  foot  of  the  street 
came  the  sharp  ping  of  rifles.  No  one  paid  any  atten- 
tion. We  were  warm  and  sheltered  from  the  wind. 
What  if  the  town  was  being  shelled  and  the  Germans 
were  only  six  hundred  feet  away?  We  were  getting 
dry,  and  there  was  mutton  for  dinner. 

It  was  a  very  cheerful  party — the  two  young  ladies, 
and  a  third  who  had  joined  them  temporarily,  a  doc- 
tor who  was  taking  influenza  and  added  little  to  the 
conversation,  the  chauffeur  attached  to  the  house,  who 
was  a  count  in  ordinary  times,  a  Belgian  major  who 
had  come  up  from  the  trenches  to  have  a  real  meal, 
and  the  English  officer  who  had  taken  me  out. 

Outside  the  door  stood  the  major's  Congo  servant, 
a  black  boy  who  never  leaves  him,  following  with  dog- 


246  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

like  fidelity  into  the  trenches  and  sleeping  outside  his 
door  when  the  major  is  in  billet.  He  had  picked  him 
up  in  the  Congo  years  before  during  his  active  service 
there. 

The  meal  went  on.  The  frying-pan  was  passed. 
The  food  was  good  and  the  talk  was  better.  It  was 
indiscriminately  rapid  French  and  English.  When  it 
was  English  I  replied.  When  it  was  French  I  ate. 

The  hostess  presented  me  with  a  shrapnel  case  which 
had  arrived  that  day  on  the  doorstep. 

"If  you  are  collecting  trophies,"  said  the  major, 
"I  shall  get  you  a  German  sentry  this  evening.  How 
would  you  like  that?" 

There  was  a  reckless  twinkle  in  the  major's  eye. 
It  developed  that  he  had  captured  several  sentries  and 
liked  playing  the  game. 

But  I  did  not  know  the  man.  So  I  said:  "Cer- 
tainly, it  would  be  most  interesting." 

Whereupon  he  rose.  It  took  all  the  combined  effort 
of  the  dinner  party  to  induce  him  to  sit  down  and 
continue  his  meal.  He  was  vastly  disappointed.  He 
was  a  big  man  with  a  humorous  mouth.  The  idea  of 
bringing  me  a  German  sentry  to  take  home  as  a  trophy 
appealed  to  him. 

The  meal  went  on.    No  one  seemed  to  consider  the 
circumstances  extraordinary.     Now  and  then  I  re-  j 
membered   the   story  of   the   street  fighting   a   few ' 
nights  before.    I  had  an  idea  that  these  people  would 
keep  on  eating  and  talking  English   politics  quite 
calmly  in  the  event  of  a  German  charge.    I  wondered 
if  I  could  live  up  to  my  reputation  for  courage  in 
such  a  crisis. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
FLIGHT 


THE  first  part  of  the  meal  over,  the  hostess  picked 
up  a  nut  and  threw  it  deftly  at  a  door  leading 
into  the  lean-to-kitchen. 

"Our  table  bell,"  she  explained  to.  me.  And,  true 
enough,  a  moment  later  the  orderly  appeared  and  car- 
ried out  the  plates. 

Then  we  had  dessert,  which  was  fruit  and  candy, 
and  coffee. 

And  all  the  time  the  guns  were  firing,  and  every 
opening  of  the  door  into  the  corridor  brought  a  gale 
of  wind  into  the  room. 

Suddenly  it  struck  me  that  hardly  a  foot  of  the 
plaster  interior  of  that  room  was  whole.  The  ceiling 
was  riddled.  So  were  the  walls. 

"Shrapnel,"  said  the  major,  following  my  gaze. 
"It  gets  worse  every  day." 

"I  think  the  ceiling  is  going  to  fall,"  said  one  of 
the  hostesses. 

True  enough,  there  was  a  great  bulge  in  the  centre. 
But  it  held  for  that  night.  It  may  be  holding  now. 

Everybody  took  a  hand  at  clearing  the  table.  The 
lamp  was  burning  low,  and  they  filled  it  without  put- 
ting it  out.  One  of  the  things  that  I  have  always 
been  taught  is  never  to  fill  a  lighted  lamp.  I  explained 

247 


248  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

this  to  them  carefully.  But  they  were  quite  calm. 
It  seems  at  the  front  one  does  a  great  many  extraor- 
dinary things.  It  is  part  and  parcel  of  that  utter 
indifference  to  danger  that  comes  with  war. 

Now  appeared  the  chauffeur,  who  brought  the  in-/ 
formation  that  the  car  had  been  dragged  out  of  the 
mud  and  towed  as  far  as  the  house. 

"Towed?"  I  said  blankly. 

"Towed,  madame.    There  is  no  more  petrol." 

The  major  suggested  that  we  kill  him  at  once.  But 
he  was  a  perfectly  good  chauffeur  and  young.  Also 
it  developed  that  he  had  not  sat  on  my  hat.  So  we 
let  him  live. 

"Never  mind,"   said  Miss  C ;  "we  can  give 

you  the  chauffeur's  bed  and  he  can  go  somewhere 
else." 

But  after  a  time  I  decided  that  I  would  rather  walk 
back  than  stay  overnight  in  that  house.  For  the  major 
explained  that  at  eleven  o'clock  the  batteries  behind 
the  town  would  bombard  the  German  trenches  and 
the  road  behind  them,  along  which  they  had  informa- 
tion that  an  ammunition  train  would  pass. 

"Another  night  in  the  cellar !"  said  some  one.  "That 
means  no  one  will  need  any  beds,  for  there  will  be  a 
return  fire,  of  course." 

"Is  there  no  petrol  to  be  had?"  I  inquired  anxiously.  -I 

"None  whatever." 

None,  of  course.  There  had  been  shops  in  the  town, 
and  presumably  petrol  and  other  things.  But  now 
there  was  nothing  but  ruined  walls  and  piles  of  brick 
'and  mortar.  However,  there  was  a  cellar. 

My  feet  were  swollen  and  painful,  for  the  walk 
had  been  one  long  agony.  I  was  chilled,  too,  from 
my  wetting,  in  spite  of  the  fire.  I  sat  by  the  tiny  stove 


FLIGHT  249 

and  tried  to  forget  the  prospect  of  a  night  in  the  cellar, 
tried  to  ignore  the  pieces  of  shell  and  shrapnel  cases 
lined  up  on  the  mantelpiece,  shells  and  shrapnel  that 
had  entered  the  house  and  destroyed  it. 

The  men  smoked  and  talked.  An  officer  came  up 
from  the  trenches  to  smoke  his  after-dinner  pipe,  a 
bearded  individual,  who  apologised  for  his  muddy 
condition.  He  and  the  major  played  a  duet.  They 
made  a  great  fuss  about  their  preparation  for  it.  The 
stool  must  be  so,  the  top  of  the  cracked  piano  raised. 
They  turned  and  bowed  to  us  profoundly.  Then  sat 
down  and  played — CHOP  STICKS! 

But  that  was  only  the  beginning.  For  both  of  them 
were  accomplished  musicians.  The  major  played 
divinely.  He  played  a  Rhapsodic  Hongroise,  the 
Moonlight  Sonata,  one  of  the  movements  of  the  So- 
nata Appassionata.  He  played  without  notes,  a  bull- 
dog pipe  gripped  firmly  in  his  teeth,  blue  clouds  encir- 
cling his  fair  hair.  Gone  was  the  reckless  soldier  who 
would  have  taken  his  life  in  his  hands  for  the  whim 
of  bringing  in  a  German  sentry.  Instead  there  was 
a  Belgian  whose  ruined  country  lay  behind  him,  whose 
people  lay  dead  in  thousands  of  hideous  graves,  whose 
heart  was  torn  and  aching  with  the  things  that  it  knew 
and  buried.  We  sat  silent.  His  pipe  died  in  his 
mouth;  his  eyes,  fixed  on  the  shell-riddled  wall,  grew 
sombre.  When  the  music  ceased  his  hands  still  lay 
lingeringly  on  the  keys.  And,  beyond  the  foot  of  the 
street,  the  ominous  guns  of  the  army  that  had  ruined 
his  country  crashed  steadily. 

We  were  rather  subdued  when  the  music  died  away. 
But  he  evidently  regretted  having  put  a  weight  on  the 
spirits  of  the  party.  He  rose  and  brought  me  a  charm- 
ing little  water-colour  sketch  he  had  made  of  the  bit 


250  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

of  No  Man's  Land  in  front  of  his  trench,  with  the 
German  line  beyond  it. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said  in  his  exact  English,  "I  went 
to  art  school  in  Dresden  with  an  American  named 
Reinhart.  Afterward  he  became  a  great  painter — 
Charles  Stanley  Reinhart.  Is  he  by  any  chance  a 
relative  ?" 

"Charles  Stanley  Reinhart  is  dead,"  I  said.  "He 
was  a  Pittsburgher,  too,  but  the  two  families  are 
connected  only  by  marriage." 

"Dead!  So  he  is  dead  too!  Everybody  is  dead. 
He — he  was  a  very  nice  boy." 

Suddenly  he  stood  up  and  stretched  his  long  arms. 

"It  was  a  long  time  ago,"  he  said.  "Now  I  go  for 
the  sentry." 

They  caught  him  at  the  door,  however,  and  brought 
him  back. 

"But  it  is  so  simple,"  he  protested.  "No  one  is 
hurt.  And  the  American  lady " 

The  American  lady  protested. 

"I  don't  want  a  German  sentry,"  I  said.  "I  shouldn't 
know  what  to  do  with  a  German  sentry  if  I  had  one." 

So  he  sat  down  and  explained  his  method  to  me. 
I  wish  I  could  tell  his  method  here.  It  sounded  so 
easy.  Evidently  it  was  a  safety-valve,  during  that 
long  wait  of  the  deadlock,  for  his  impetuous  tempera- 
ment. One  could  picture  him  sitting  in  his  trench 
day  after  day  among  the  soldiers  who  adored  him, 
making  little  water-colour  sketches  and  smoking  his 
bulldog  pipe,  and  then  suddenly,  as  now,  rising  and 
stretching  his  long  arms  and  saying : 

"Well,  boys,  I  guess  I'll  go  out  and  bring  one  in." 

And  doing  it. 

I  was  taken  for  a  tour  of  the  house — up  a  broken 


FLIGHT  251 

staircase  that  hung  suspended,  apparently  from  noth- 
ing, to  what  had  been  the  upper  story. 

It  was  quite  open  to  the  sky  and  the  rain  was  com- 
ing in.  On  the  side  toward  the  German  line  there  was 
no  wall.  There  were  no  partitions,  no  windows,  only 
a  few  broken  sticks  of  what  had  been  furniture.  And 
in  one  corner,  partly  filled  with  rain  water,  a  child's 
cradle  that  had  miraculously  escaped  destruction. 

Downstairs  to  the  left  of  the  corridor  was  equal 
destruction.  There  was  one  room  here  that,  except 
for  a  great  shell-hole  and  for  a  ceiling  that  was  sag- 
ging and  almost  ready  to  fall,  was  intact.  Here  on 
a  stand  were  surgical  supplies,  and  there  was  a  cot 
in  the  corner.  A  soldier  had  just  left  the  cot.  He  had 
come  up  late  in  the  afternoon  with  a  nosebleed,  and 
had  now  recovered. 

"It  has  been  a  light  day,"  said  my  guide.  "Some- 
times we  hardly  know  which  way  to  turn — when 
there  is  much  going  on,  you  know.  Probably  to-night 
we  shall  be  extremely  busy." 

We  went  back  into  the  living  room  and  I  consulted 
my  watch.  It  was  half  past  ten  o'clock.  At  eleven 
the  bombardment  was  to  begin! 

The  conversation  in  the  room  had  turned  to  spies. 
Always,  everywhere,  I  found  this  talk  of  spies.  It 
appeared  that  at  night  a  handful  of  the  former  inhabi- 
tants of  the  town  crept  back  from  the  fields  to  sleep  in 
the  cellars  of  what  had  been  their  homes,  and  some 
of  them  were  under  suspicion. 

"Every  morning,"  said  Miss  C ,  "before  the 

German  bombardment  begins,  three  small  shells  are 
sent  over  in  quick  succession.  Then  there  is  about 
fifteen  minutes'  wait  before  the  real  shelling.  I  am 
convinced  that  it  is  a  signal  to  some  one  to  get  out." 


252  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

The  officers  pooh-poohed  the  idea.  But  Miss  C > 

stuck  to  her  point. 

"They  are  getting  information  somehow,"  she  said. 
"You  may  laugh  if  you  like.  I  am  sure  I  am  right." 

Later  on  an  officer  explained  to  me  something  about 
the  secret  service  of  the  war. 

"It  is  a  war  of  spies,"  he  said.  "That  is  one  reason 
for  the  deadlock.  Every  movement  is  reported  to  the 
other  side  and  checkmated  almost  before  it  begins. 
In  the  eastern  field  of  war  the  system  is  still  inade- 
quate; that  accounts  for  the  great  movements  that 
have  taken  place  there." 

Perhaps  he  is  right.  It  sounds  reasonable.  I  do 
not  know  with  what  authority  he  spoke.  But  certainly 
everywhere  I  found  this  talk  of  spies.  One  of  the 
officers  that  night  told  of  a  recent  experience  of 
his. 

"I  was  in  a  church  tower  at ,"  he  said.  "There 

were  three  of  us.  We  had  been  looking  over  toward 
the  German  lines.  Suddenly  I  looked  down  into  the 
street  below.  Some  one  with  an  electric  flash  was 
signalling  across.  It  was  quite  distinct.  All  of  us 
saw  it.  There  was  an  answer  from  the  German 
trenches  immediately.  While  one  of  us  kept  watch 
on  the  tower  the  others  rushed  down  into  the  street. 
There  was  no  one  there.  But  it  is  certain  that  that 
sort  of  thing  goes  on  all  the  time." 

A  quarter  to  eleven ! 

Suddenly  the  whole  thing  seemed  impossible — that 
the  noise  at  the  foot  of  the  street  was  really  guns; 
that  I  should  be  there;  that  these  two  young  women 
should  live  there  day  and  night  in  the  midst  of  such 
horrors.  For  the  whole  town  is  a  graveyard.  Bodies 
in  numbers  have  been  buried  in  shell-holes  and  hastily 


FLIGHT  253 

Covered,  or  float  in  the  stagnant  water  of  the  canal. 
[Every  heavy  rain  uncovers  shallow  graves  in  the  fields, 
allowing  a  dead  arm,  part  of  a  rotting  trunk,  to  show. 

And  now,  after  this  lapse  of  time,  it  still  seems  in- 
credible. Are  they  still  there  ?  Report  has  it  that  the 
Germans  captured  this  town  and  held  it  for  a  time,  .* 
only  to  lose  it  later.  What  happened  to  the  little  "sick 
and  sorry"  house  during  those  fearful  days?  Did  the 
German  officers  sit  about  that  pine  table  and  throw  a 
nut  to  summon  an  orderly?  Did  they  fill  the  lamp 
while  it  was  lighted,  and  play  on  the  cracked  piano, 
and  pick  up  shrapnel  cases  as  they  landed  on  the  door- 
step and  set  them  on  the  mantel? 

Ten  minutes  to  eleven! 

The  chauffeur  came  to  the  door  and  stuck  his  head 
in. 

"I  have  found  petrol  in  a  can  in  an  empty  shed," 
he  explained.  "It  is  now  possible  to  go." 

We  went.  We  lost  no  time  on  the  order  of  our 
going.  The  rain  was  over,  but  the  fog  had  descended 
again.  We  lighted  our  lamps,  and  were  curtly  ordered 
by  a  sentry  to  put  them  out.  In  the  moment  that  they 
remained  alight,  carefully  turned  away  from  the 
trenches,  it  was  possible  to  see  the  hopeless  condition 
of  the  street. 

At  last  we  reached  a  compromise.  One  lamp  we 
might  have,  but  covered  with  heavy  paper.  It  was 
very  little.  The  car  bumped  ominously,  sagged  into 
shell-holes. 

I  turned  and  looked  back  at  the  house.  Faint  rays 
of  light  shone  through  its  boarded  windows.  A 
wounded  soldier  had  been  brought  up  the  street  and 
stood,  leaning  heavily  on  his  companion,  at  the  door- 
step. The  door  opened,  and  he  was  taken  in. 


254  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

Good-bye,  little  "sick  and  sorry"  house,  with  your 
laughter  and  tears,  your  friendly  hands,  your  open 
door !  Good-bye ! 

Five  minutes  later,  as  we  reached  the  top  of  the 
street,  the  bombardment  began. 


CHAPTER  XXV 
VOLUNTEERS  AND  PATRIOTS 


T  HOLD  a  strong  brief  for  the  English:  For  the 
•*•  English  at  home,  restrained,  earnest,  determined 
and  unassuming;  for  the  English  in  the  field,  equally 
all  of  these  things. 

The  British  Army  has  borne  attacks  at  La  Bassee 
and  Ypres,  positions  so  strategically  difficult  to  hold 
that  the  Germans  have  concentrated  their  assaults  at 
these  points.  It  has  borne  the  horrors  of  the  retreat 
from  Mons,  when  what  the  Kaiser  called  "General 
French's  contemptible  little  army"  was  forced  back  by 
oncoming  hosts  of  many  times  its  number.  It  has 
fought,  as  the  English  will  always  fight,  with  un- 
equalled heroism  but  without  heroics. 

To-day,  after  many  months  of  war,  the  British  Army 
in  the  field  is  as  smart,  in  a  military  sense,  as  tidy — 
if  it  will  forgive  me  the  word — as  well  ordered,  as 
efficiently  cared  for,  as  the  German  Army  was  in  the 
beginning.  Partly  this  is  due  to  its  splendid  equip- 
ment. Mostly  it  is  due  to  that  fetish  of  the  British 
soldier  wherever  he  may  be — personal  neatness. 

Behind  the  lines  he  is  jaunty,  cheerful,  smart  beyond 
belief.  He  hates  the  trenches — not  because  they  are 
dangerous  or  monotonous  but  because  it  is  difficult  to 
take  a  bath  in  them.  He  is  four  days  in  the  trenches 
and  four  days  out.  On  his  days  out  he  drills  and 

255 


256  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

— ^— ^-^^^^-^^^—     .»  .— ^^— ^— — —  — —— ^— c^^— — — ™— — _______r    * 

marches,  to  get  back  into  condition  after  the  forced 
inaction  of  the  trenches.  And  he  gets  his  hair  trimmed. 

There  is  something  about  the  appearance  of  the 
British  soldier  in  the  field  that  got  me  by  the  throat. 
Perhaps  because  they  are,  in  a  sense,  my  own  people, 
speaking  my  tongue,  looking  at  things  from  a  view- 
point that  I  could  understand.  That  partly.  But  it 
was  more  than  that. 

These  men  and  boys  are  volunteers,  the  very  flower 
of  England.  They  march  along  the  roads,  heads  well 
up,  eyes  ahead,  thousands  of  them.  What  a  tragedy 
for  the  country  that  gives  them  up!  Who  will  take 
their  places? — these  splendid  Scots  with  their  pic- 
turesque kilts,  their  bare,  muscular  knees,  their 
great  shoulders;  the  cheery  Irish,  swaggering  a  bit 
and  with  a  twinkle  in  their  blue  eyes ;  these  tall  young 
English  boys,  showing  race  in  every  line;  these  dash- 
ing Canadians,  so  impressive  that  their  every  appear- 
ance on  a  London  street  was  certain  to  set  the  crowds 
to  cheering. 

I  saw  them  in  London,  and  later  on  I  saw  them  at 
the  front.  Still  later  I  saw  them  again,  prostrate  on 
the  ground,  in  hospital  trains,  on  hospital  ships.  I 
saw  mounds,  too,  marked  with  wooden  crosses. 

Volunteers  and  patriots!  A  race  incapable  of  a 
mean  thing,  incapable  of  a  cruelty.  A  race  of  sports- 
men, playing  this  horrible  game  of  war  fairly,  almost 
too  honestly.  A  race,  not  of  diplomats,  but  of  gentle- 
men. 

"You  will  always  be  fools,"  said  a  captured  German 
naval  officer  to  his  English  captors,  "and  we  shall  never 
be  gentlemen!" 

But  they  are  not  fools.  It  is  that  attitude  toward 
the  English  that  may  defeat  Germany  in  the  end. 


VOLUNTEERS  AND  PATRIOTS  257 

Every  man  in  the  British  Army  to-day  has  counted 
the  cost.  He  is  there  because  he  elected  to  be  there. 
He  is  going  to  stay  by  until  the  thing  is  done,  or  he  is. 
He  says  very  little  about  it.  He  is  uncomfortable  if 
any  one  else  says  anything  about  it.  He  is  rather  mat- 
ter of  fact,  indeed,  and  nonchalant  as  long  as  things 
are  being  done  fairly.  But  there  is  nothing  calm  about 
his  attitude  when  his  opponent  hits  below  the  belt 
It  was  a  sense  of  fair  play,  as  well  as  humanity,  that 
made  England  rise  to  the  call  of  Belgium.  It  is  Eng- 
land's sense  of  fair  play  that  makes  her  soldiers  and 
sailors  go  white  with  fury  at  the  drowning  of  women 
and  children  and  noncombatants ;  at  the  unprincipled 
employment  of  such  trickery  in  war  as  the  use  of 
asphyxiating  gases,  or  at  the  insulting  and  ill-treating 
of  those  of  their  army  who  have  been  captured  by  the 
Germans.  It  is  at  the  English,  not  at  the  French  or 
the  Belgians,  that  Germany  is  striking  in  this  war. 
Her  whole  attitude  shows  it.  British  statesmen  knew 
this  from  the  beginning,  but  the  people  were  slow  to 
believe  it.  But  escaped  prisoners  have  told  that  they 
were  discriminated  against.  I  have  talked  with  a  Brit- 
ish officer  who  made  a  sensational  escape  from  a  Ger- 
man prison  camp.  German  soldiers  have  called  across 
to  the  French  trenches  that  it  was  the  English  they 
were  after. 

In  his  official  order  to  his  troops  to  advance,  the  k 
German  Emperor  voiced  the  general  sentiment. 

"It  is  my  Royal  and  Imperial  Command  that 
you  concentrate  your  energies,  for  the  immediate 
present,  upon  one  single  purpose,  and  that  is  that 
you  address  all  your  skill  and  all  the  valour  of 
my  soldiers  to  exterminate  first  the  treacherous 


KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 


English  and  walk  over  General  French's  con- 
temptible little  army. 

"Headquarters, 

"Aix-la-Chapelle,  August  igth,  1914." 

In  the  name  of  the  dignity  of  great  nations,  com- 
pare that  order  with  Lord  Kitchener's  instructions  to 
his  troops,  given  at  the  same  time. 

"You  are  ordered  abroad  as  a  soldier  of  the 
King  to  help  our  French  comrades  against  the  in- 
vasion of  a  common  enemy.  You  have  to  per- 
form a  task  which  will  need  your  courage,  your 
energy,  your  patience.  Remember  that  the  hon- 
our of  the  British  Army  depends  on  your  indi- 
vidual conduct.  It  will  be  your  duty  not  only  to 
set  an  example  of  discipline  and  perfect  steadi- 
ness under  fire,  but  also  to  maintain  the  most 
friendly  relations  with  those  whom  you  are  help- 
ing in  this  struggle. 

"The  operations  in  which  you  are  engaged  will, 
for  the  most  part,  take  place  in  a  friendly  country, 
and  you  can  do  your  own  country  no  better  serv- 
ice than  in  showing  yourselves  in  France  and  Bel- 
gium in  the  true  character  of  a  British  soldier. 

"Be  invariably  courteous,  considerate,  and 
kind.  Never  do  anything  likely  to  injure  or  de- 
stroy property,  and  always  look  upon  looting  as  a 
disgraceful  act.  You  are  sure  to  meet  with  a  wel- 
come and  to  be  trusted  ;  your  conduct  will  justify 
that  welcome  and  that  trust.  Your  duty  cannot 
be  done  unless  your  health  is  sound.  So  keep 
constantly  on  your  guard  against  any  excesses. 
In  this  new  experience  you  may^  find  temptations 


VOLUNTEERS  AND  PATRIOTS  259 

both  in  wine  and  women.  You  must  entirely  re- 
sist both  temptations,  and,  while  treating  all 
women  with  perfect  courtesy,  you  should  avoid 
any  intimacy. 

"Do  your  duty  bravely, 

"Fear  God, 

"Honour  the  King. 
"(Signed),    KITCHENER,  Field  Marshal."' 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
A  LUNCHEON  AT  BRITISH  HEADQUARTERS 


'  I AHE  same  high-crowned  roads,  with  pitfalls  o£ 
-••  mud  at  each  side;  the  same  lines  of  trees;  the 
same  coating  of  ooze,  over  which  the  car  slid  danger- 
ously. But  a  new  element — khaki. 

Khaki  everywhere — uniforms,  tents,  transports,  all 
of  the  same  hue.  Skins,  too,  where  one  happens  on 
the  Indian  troops.  It  is  difficult  to  tell  where  their 
faces  end  and  their  yellow  turbans  begin. 

Except  for  the  slightly  rolling  landscape  and  the 
khaki  one  might  have  been  behind  the  Belgian  or 
French  Army.  There  were  as  usual  aeroplanes  over- 
head, clouds  of  shrapnel  smoke,  and  not  far  away  the 
thunder  of  cannonading.  After  a  time  even  that 
ceased,  for  I  was  on  my  way  to  British  General  Head- 
quarters, well  back  from  the  front. 

I  carried  letters  from  England  to  Field  Marshal 
Sir  John  French,  to  Colonel  Brinsley  Fitzgerald,  aid- 
de-camp  to  the  "Chief,"  as  he  is  called,  and  to  General 
Huguet,  the  liaison  between  the  French  and  English 
Armies.  His  official  title  is  something  entirely  dif- 
ferent, but  the  French  word  is  apt.  He  is  the  connect- 
ing link  between  the  English  and  French  Armies. 

I  sent  these  letters  to  headquarters,  and  waited  in 
the  small  hotel  for  developments.  The  British  antip- 
athy to  correspondents  was  well  known.  True,  there 

260 


LUNCHEON  AT  BRITISH  HEADQUARTERS    261 

were  indications  that  a  certain  relaxation  was  about  to 
take  place.  Frederick  Palmer  in  London  had  been 
notified  that  before  long  he  would  be  sent  across,  and 
I  had  heard  that  some  of  the  London  newspapers,  the 
Times  and  a  few  others,  were  to  be  allowed  a  day  at 
the  lines. 

But  at  the  time  my  machine  drew  into  that  little 
French  town  and  deposited  me  in  front  of  a  wretched 
inn,  no  correspondent  had  been  to  the  British  lines. 
It  was  terra  incognita.  Even  London  knew  very  little. 
It  was  rumoured  that  such  part  of  the  Canadian  con- 
tingent as  had  left  England  up  to  that  time  had  been 
sent  to  the  eastern  field,  to  Egypt  or  the  Dardanelles. 
With  the  exception  of  Sir  John  French's  reports  and 
the  "Somewhere  in  France"  notes  of  "Eyewitness,"  a 
British  officer  at  the  front,  England  was  taking  her 
army  on  faith. 

And  now  I  was  there,  and  there  frankly  as  a  writer. 
Also  I  was  a  woman.  I  knew  how  the  chivalrous 
English  mind  recoiled  at  the  idea  of  a  woman  near 
the  front.  Their  nurses  were  kept  many  miles  in 
the  rear.  They  had  raised  loud  protests  when  three 
English  women  were  permitted  to  stay  at  the  front 
with  the  Belgian  Army. 

My  knees  were  a  bit  weak  as  I  went  up  the  steps 
and  into  the  hotel.  They  would  hardly  arrest  me.  My 
letters  were  from  very  important  persons  indeed.  But 
they  could  send  me  away  with  expedition  and  dispatch. 
I  had  run  the  Channel  blockade  to  get  there,  and  I  did 
not  wish  to  be  sent  away  with  expedition  and  dispatch. 

The  hotel  was  cold  and  bare.  Curious-eyed  officers 
came  in,  stared  at  me  and  went  out.  A  French  gentle- 
man in  a  military  cape  walked  round  the  bare  room, 
spoke  to  the  canaries  in  a  great  cage  in  the  corner,  and 


262  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

came  back  to  where  I  sat  with  my  fur  coat,  lap-robe 
fashion,  over  my  knees. 

"Pardon!"  he  said.  "Are  you  the  Duchess  of 
Sutherland?" 

I  regretted  that  I  was  not  the  Duchess  of  Suther- 
land. 

"You  came  just  now  in  a  large  car  ?" 

"I  did." 

"You  intend  to  stay  here  for  some  time?" 

"I  have  not  decided." 

"Where  did  you  come  from?" 

"I  think,"  I  said  after  a  rather  stunned  pause,  "that 
I  shall  not  tell  you." 

"Madame  is  very  cautious!" 

I  felt  convinced  that  he  spoke  with  the  authority  of 
the  army,  or  of  the  town  gendarmerie,  behind  him. 
But  I  was  irritated.  Besides,  I  had  been  cautioned  so 
much  about  telling  where  I  had  been,  except  in  general 
terms,  that  I  was  even  afraid  to  talk  in  my  sleep. 

"I  think,"  I  said,  "that  it  does  not  really  matter 
where  I  came  from,  where  I  am  going,  or  what  I  am 
doing  here." 

I  expected  to  see  him  throw  back  his  cape  and  ex- 
hibit a  sheriff's  badge,  or  whatever  its  French  equiv- 
alent. But  he  only  smiled. 

"In  that  case,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "I  shall  wish  you 
a  good-morning." 

"Good-bye,"  I  said  coldly.    And  he  took  himself  off. 

I  have  never  solved  the  mystery  of  that  encounter. 
Was  he  merely  curious?  Or  scraping  acquaintance 
with  the  only  woman  he  had  seen  in  months  ?  Or  was 
he  as  imposing  a  person  as  he  looked,  and  did  he  go 
away  for  a  warrant  or  whatever  was  necessary,  and 
return  to  find  me  safe  in  the  lap  of  the  British  Army? 


LUNCHEON  AT  BRITISH  HEADQUARTERS    263 

The  canary  birds  sang,  and  a  porter  with  a  leather 
apron,  having  overcome  a  national  inability  to  light  a 
fire  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  came  to  take  me  to  my 
room.  There  was  an  odour  of  stewing  onions  in  the 
air,  and  soapsuds,  and  a  dog  sniffed  at  me  and  barked 
because  I  addressed  him  in  English. 

And  then  General  Huguet  came,  friendly  and  smil- 
ing, and  speaking  English.  And  all  was  well. 

Afterward  I  learned  how  that  same  diplomacy  which 
made  me  comfortable  and  at  home  with  him  at  once 
has  made  smooth  the  relations  between  the  English 
and  French  Armies.  It  was  Chesterfield,  wasn't  it, 
who  spoke  of  "Suaviter  in  modo,  fortiter  in  re"? 
That  is  General  Huguet.  A  tall  man,  dark,  keen  and 
of  most  soldierly  bearing;  beside  the  genial  downright- 
ness  of  the  British  officers  he  was  urbane,  suave,  but 
full  of  decision.  His  post  requires  diplomacy  but  not 
concession. 

Sir  John  French,  he  regretted  to  say,  was  at  the 
front  and  would  not  return  until  late  in  the  evening. 
But  Colonel  Fitzgerald  hoped  that  I  would  come  to 
luncheon  at  headquarters,  so  that  we  might  talk  over 
what  was  best  to  be  done.  He  would,  if  the  arrange- 
ment suited  me,  return  at  one  o'clock  for  me. 

It  was  half  past  twelve.  I  made  such  concessions  to 
the  occasion  as  my  travelling  bag  permitted,  and, 
prompt  to  the  minute,  General  Huguet' s  car  drew  up 
at  the  inn  door.  It  was  a  wonderful  car,  I  used  it  all 
that  afternoon  and  the  next  day,  and  I  can  testify 
both  to  its  comfort  and  to  its  speed.  I  had  travelled 
fast  in  cars  belonging  to  the  Belgian  and  French  staffs, 
but  never  have  I  gone  as  I  did  in  that  marvel  of  a  car. 
Somewhere  among  my  papers  I  have  a  sketch  that  I 
made  of  the  interior  of  the  limousine  body,  with  the 


264  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

two  soldier-chauffeurs  outside  in  front,  the  two  car- 
bines strapped  to  the  speedometer  between  the  vis-a-vis 
seats  inside  the  car,  and  the  speedometer  registering 
ninety  kilometres  and  going  up. 

We  went  at  once  to  British  Headquarters,  with  its 
sentries  and  its  flag ;  a  large  house,  which  had  belonged 
to  a  notary,  its  grim  and  forbidding  exterior  gave  little 
promise  of  the  comfort  within.  A  passage  led  to  a 
square  centre  hall  from  which  opened  various  rooms — * 
a  library,  with  a  wood  fire,  the  latest  possible  London 
and  Paris  papers,  a  flat-topped  desk  and  a  large  map ;  a 
very  large  drawing-room,  which  is  Sir  John  French's 
private  office,  with  white  walls  panelled  with  rose  bro- 
cade, a  marble  mantel,  and  a  great  centre  table,  cov- 
ered, like  the  library  desk,  with  papers ;  a  dining  room, 
wainscoted  and  comfortable.  There  were  other  rooms, 
which  I  did  not  see.  In  the  square  hall  an  orderly  sat 
all  day,  waiting  for  orders  of  various  sorts. 

Colonel  Fitzgerald  greeted  me  amiably.  He  re- 
gretted that  Sir  John  French  was  absent,  and  was 
curious  as  to  how  I  had  penetrated  to  the  fastnesses 
of  British  Headquarters  without  trouble.  Now  and 
then,  glancing  at  him  unexpectedly  during  the  excel- 
lent luncheon  that  followed,  I  found  his  eyes  fixed 
on  me  thoughtfully,  intently.  It  was  not  at  all  an 
unfriendly  gaze.  Rather  it  was  the  look  of  a  man 
who  is  painstakingly  readjusting  his  mental  processes 
to  meet  a  new  situation. 

He  made  a  delightful  host.  I  sat  at  his  right.  At 
the  other  end  of  the  table  was  General  Huguet,  and 
across  from  me  a  young  English  nobleman,  attached  to 
the  field  marshal's  staff,  came  in,  a  few  minutes  late, 
and  took  his  place.  The  Prince  of  Wales,  who  lives 
there,  had  gone  to  the  trenches  the  day  before. 


LUNCHEON  AT  BRITISH  HEADQUARTERS     265 

Two  soldier-servants  served  the  meal.  There  was 
red  wine,  but  none  of  the  officers  touched  it.  The 
conversation  was  general  and  animated.  We  spoke 
of  public  opinion  in  America,  of  the  resources  of 
Germany  and  her  starvation  cry,  of  the  probable  length 
of  the  war.  On  this  opinions  varied.  One  of  the 
officers  prophesied  a  quick  ending  when  the  Allies  were 
finally  ready  to  take  the  offensive.  The  others  were 
not  so  optimistic.  But  neither  here,  nor  in  any  of  the 
conversations  I  have  heard  at  the  headquarters  of  the 
Allies,  was  there  a  doubt  expressed  as  to  ultimate  vic- 
tory. They  had  a  quiet  confidence  that  was  contagious. 
There  was  no  bluster,  no  assertion ;  victory  was  simply 
accepted  as  a  fact;  the  only  two  opinions  might  be  as 
to  when  it  would  occur,  and  whether  the  end  would  be 
sudden  or  a  slow. withdrawal  of  the  German  forces. 

The  French  Algerian  troops  and  the  Indian  forces 
of  Great  Britain  came  up  for  discussion,  their  bravery, 
their  dislike  for  trench  fighting  and  intense  longing  to 
charge,  the  inroads  the  bad  weather  had  made  on  them 
during  the  winter. 

One  of  the  officers  considered  the  American  press 
rather  pro-German.  The  recent  American  note  to  Sir 
Edward  Grey  and  his  reply,  with  the  press  comments 
on  both,  led  to  this  statement.  The  possibility  of  Ger- 
many's intentionally  antagonising  America  was  dis- 
cussed, but  not  at  length. 

From  the  press  to  the  censorship  was  but  a  step. 
I  objected  to  the  English  method  as  having  lost  us  our 
perspective  on  the  war. 

"You  allow  anything  to  go  through  the  censor's 
office  that  is  not  considered  dangerous  or  too  explicit," 
I  said.  "False  reports  go  through  on  an  equality  with 
true  ones.  How  can  America  know  what  to  believe  ?" 


266  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

It  was  suggested  by  some  one  that  the  only  way  to 
make  the  censorship  more  elastic,  while  retaining  its 
usefulness  in  protecting  military  secrets  and  move- 
ments, was  to  establish  such  a  censorship  at  the  front, 
where  it  is  easier  to  know  what  news  would  be  harm- 
ful to  give  out  and  what  may  be  printed  with  safety. 

J  mentioned  what  a  high  official  of  the  admiralty 
had  said  to  me  about  the  censorship — that  it  was  "an 
infernal  nuisance,  but  necessary." 

"But  it  is  not  true  that  messages  are  misleadingly 
changed  in  transmission,"  said  one  of  the  officers  at 
the  table. 

I  had  seen  the  head  of  the  press-censorship  bureau, 
and  was  able  to  repeat  what  he  had  said — that  where 
the  cutting  out  of  certain  phrases  endangered  the  sense 
of  a  message,  the  words  "and"  or  "the"  were  occa- 
sionally added,  that  the  sense  might  be  kept  clear,  but 
that  no  other  additions  or  changes  of  meaning  were 
ever  made. 

Luncheon  was  over.  We  went  into  the  library,  and 
there,  ,  consulting  the  map,  Colonel  Fitzgerald  and 
General  Huguet  discussed  where  I  might  go  that  after- 
noon. The  mist  of  the  morning  had  turned  to  rain, 
and  the  roads  at  the  front  would  be  very  bad.  Besides, 
it  was  felt  that  the  "Chief"  should  give  me  permission 
to  go  to  the  front,  and  he  had  not  yet  returned. 

"How  about  seeing  the  Indians?"  asked  Colonel 
Fitzgerald,  turning  from  the  map. 

"I  should  like  it  very  much." 

The  young  officer  was  turned  to,  and  agreed,  like  a 
British  patriot  and  gentleman,  to  show  me  the  Indian 
villages.  General  Huguet  offered  his  car.  The  officer 
got  his  sheepskin-lined  coat,  for  the  weather  was 
cold. 


LUNCHEON  AT  BRITISH  HEADQUARTERS     267 

"Thirty  shillings,"  he  said,  "and  nothing  goes 
through  it !" 

I  examined  that  coat.  It  was  smart,  substantial, 
lined  throughout  with  pure  white  fur,  and  it  had  cost 
seven  dollars  and  a  half. 

There  is  a  very  popular  English  word  just  making 
its  place  in  America.  The  word  is  "swank."  It  is 
both  noun  and  verb.  One  swanks  when  one  swag- 
gers. One  puts  on  swank  when  one  puts  on  side.  And 
because  I  hold  a  brief  for  the  English,  and  because  I 
was  fortunate  enough  to  meet  all  sorts  of  English 
people,  I  want  to  say  that  there  is  very  little  swank 
among  them.  The  example  of  simplicity  and  genuine- 
ness has  been  set  by  the  King  and  Queen.  I  met  many 
different  circles  of  people.  From  the  highest  to  the 
lowest,  there  was  a  total  absence  of  that  arrogance 
which  the  American  mind  has  so  long  associated  with 
the  English.  For  fear  of  being  thought  to  swagger, 
an  Englishman  will  understate  his  case.  And  so  with 
the  various  English  officers  I  met  at  the  front.  There 
was  no  swank.  They  were  downright,  unassuming, 
extremely  efficient-looking  men,  quick  to  speak  of 
German  courage,  ready  to  give  the  benefit  of  the  doubt 
where  unproved  outrages  were  in  question,  but  rous- 
ing, as  I  have  said,  to  pale  fury  where  their  troops 
were  being  unfairly  attacked. 

While  the  car  was  being  brought  to  the  door  General 
Huguet  pointed  out  to  me  on  the  map  where  I  was 
going.  As  we  stood  there  his  pencil  drew  a  light 
semicircle  round  the  town  of  Ypres. 

"A  great  battle,"  he  said,  and  described  it.  Colonel 
Fitzgerald  took  up  the  narrative.  So  it  happened  that, 
in  the  three  different  staff  headquarters,  Belgian, 
French  and  English,  executive  officers  of  the  three 


268  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

armies  in  the  western  field  described  to  me  that  great 
battle — the  frightful  slaughter  of  the  English,  their 
re-enforcement  at  a  critical  time  by  General  Foch's 
French  Army  of  the  North,  and  the  final  holding  of 
the  line. 

The  official  figures  of  casualties  were  given  me 
again :  English  forty-five  thousand  out  of  a  hundred 
and  twenty  thousand  engaged;  the  French  seventy 
thousand,  and  the  German  over  two  hundred  thou- 
sand. 

Turning  to  the  table,  Colonel  Fitzgerald  picked  up  a 
sheet  of  paper  covered  with  figures. 

"It  is  interesting,"  he  said,  "to  compare  the  disease 
and  battle  mortality  percentages  of  this  war  with  the 
percentages  in  other  wars;  to  see,  considering  the 
frightful  weather  and  the  trenches,  how  little  disease 
there  has  been  among  our  troops.  Compare  the  figures 
with  the  Boer  War,  for  instance.  And  even  then  our 
percentage  has  been  somewhat  brought  up  by  the  In- 
dian troops." 

"Have  many  of  them  been  ill?" 

"They  have  felt  the  weather,"  he  replied;  "not  the 
cold  so  much  as  the  steady  rain.  And  those  regiments 
of  English  that  have  been  serving  in  India  have  felt 
the  change.  They  particularly  have  suffered  from 
frostbitten  feet" 

I  knew  that.  More  than  once  I  had  seen  men  being 
taken  back  from  the  British  lines,  their  faces  twisted 
with  pain,  their  feet  great  masses  of  cotton  and  ban- 
dages which  they  guarded  tenderly,  lest  a  chance  blow 
add  to  their  agony.  Even  the  English  system  of  al- 
lowing the  men  to  rub  themselves  with  lard  and  oil 
from  the  waist  down  before  going  into  flooded 
trenches  has  not  prevented  the  tortures  of  frostbite. 


It  was  time  to  go  and  the  motor  was  waiting.  We 
set  off  in  a  driving  sleet  that  covered  the  windows  of 
the  car  and  made  motoring  even  more  than  ordinarily 
precarious.  But  the  roads  here  were  better  than  those 
nearer  the  coast ;  wider,  too,  and  not  so  crowded.  To 
Ham,  where  the  Indian  regiment  I  was  to  visit  had 
been  retired  for  rest,  was  almost  twenty  miles. 
"Ham!"  I  said.  "What  a  place  to  send  Mohamme- 
dans to !" 

In  his  long  dispatch  of  February  seventeenth  Sir 
John  French  said  of  the  Indian  troops: 

"The  Indian  troops  have  fought  with  the  utmost 
steadfastness  and  gallantry  whenever  they  have  been 
called  upon." 

This  is  the  answer  to  many  varying  statements  as 
to  the  efficacy  of  the  assistance  furnished  by  her  In- 
dian subjects  to  the  British  Empire  at  this  time.  For 
Sir  John  French  is  a  soldier,  not  a  diplomat.  No 
question  of  the  union  of  the  Empire  influences  his 
reports.  The  Indians  have  been  valuable,  or  he  would 
not  say  so.  He  is  chary  of  praise,  is  the  Field  Mar- 
shal of  the  British  Army. 

But  there  is  another  answer — that  everywhere  along 
the  British  front  one  sees  the  Ghurkas,  slant-eyed  and 
Mongolian,  with  their  broad-brimmed,  khaki-coloured 
hats,  filling  posts  of  responsibility.  They  are  little 
men,  smaller  than  the  Sikhs,  rather  reminiscent  of  the 
Japanese  in  build  and  alertness. 

When  I  was  at  the  English  front  some  of  the  Sikhs 
had  been  retired  to  rest.  But  even  in  the  small  villages 
on  billet,  relaxed  and  resting,  they  were  a  fine  and 
soldierly  looking  body  of  men,  showing  race  and  their 
ancient  civilisation. 


270  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

It  has  been  claimed  that  England  called  on  her  In- 
dian troops,  not  because  she  expected  much  assistance 
from  them  but  to  show  the  essential  unity  of  the 
British  Empire.  The  plain  truth  is,  however,  that  she 
needed  the  troops,  needed  men  at  once,  needed  ex- 
perienced soldiers  to  eke  out  her  small  and  purely  de- 
fensive army  of  regulars.  Volunteers  had  to  be 
equipped  and  drilled — a  matter  of  months. 

To  say  that  she  called  to  her  aid  barbarians  is  ab- 
surd. The  Ghurkas  are  fierce  fighters,  but  carefully 
disciplined.  Compare  the  lances  of  the  Indian  cavalry 
regiments  and  the  kukri,  the  Ghurka  knife,  with  the 
petrol  squirts,  hand  grenades,  aeroplane  darts  and  as- 
phyxiating bombs  of  Germany,  and  call  one  barbarian 
to  the  advantage  of  the  other  I  The  truth  is,  of  course, 
that  war  itself  is  barbarous. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
A  STRANGE  PARTY 


'  I  ^HE  road  to  Ham  turned  off  the  main  highway 
south  of  Aire.  It  was  a  narrow  clay  road  in 
unspeakable  condition.  The  car  wallowed  along. 
Once  we  took  a  wrong  turning  and  were  obliged  to 
go  back  and  start  again. 

It  was  still  raining.  Indian  horsemen  beat  their 
way  stolidly  along  the  road.  We  passed  through  ham- 
lets where  cavalry  horses  in  ruined  stables  were  scan- 
tily protected,  where  the  familiar  omnibuses  of  Lon- 
don were  parked  in  what  appeared  to  be  hundreds. 
The  cocoa  and  other  advertisements  had  been  taken 
off  and  they  had  been  hastily  painted  a  yellowish  grey. 
Here  and  there  we  met  one  on  the  road,  filled  and 
overflowing  with  troops,  and  looking  curiously  like 
the  "rubber-neck  wagons"  of  New  York. 

Aside  from  the  transports  and  a  few  small  Indian 
ammunition  carts,  with  open  bodies  made  of  slats,  and 
drawn  by  two  mules,  with  an  impassive  turbaned 
driver  calling  strange  words  to  his  team,  there  was  no 
sign  of  war.  No  bombarding  disturbed  the  heavy 
atmosphere ;  no  aeroplanes  were  overhead.  There  was 
no  barbed  wire,  no  trenches.  Only  muddy  sugarbeet 
fields  on  each  side  of  the  narrow  road,  a  few  winter 
trees,  and  the  beat  of  the  rain  on  the  windows. 

At  last,  with  an  extra  lurch,  the  car  drew  up  in 

271 


272  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

the  village  of  Ham.  At  a  gate  in  a  brick  wall  a  Scotch 
soldier  in  kilts,  carrying  a  rifle,  came  forward.  Our 
errand  was  explained  and  he  went  off  to  find  Makand 
Singh,  a  major  in  the  Lahore  Lancers  and  in  charge 
of  the  post. 

It  was  a  curious  picture  that  I  surveyed  through 
the  opened  door  of  the  car.  We  were  in  the  centre 
of  the  village,  and  at  the  intersection  of  a  crossroads 
was  a  tall  cross  with  a  life-size  Christ.  Underneath 
the  cross,  in  varying  attitudes  of  dampness  and  curi- 
osity, were  a  dozen  Indians,  Mohammedans  by  faith. 
Some  of  them  held  horses  which,  in  spite  of  the  rain, 
they  had  been  exercising.  One  or  two  wore  long  capes 
to  the  knees,  with  pointed  hoods  which  fitted  up  over 
their  great  turbans.  Bearded  men  with  straight,  sensi- 
tive noses  and  oval  faces,  even  the  absurdity  of  the 
cape  and  pointed  hood  failed  to  lessen  their  dignity. 
They  were  tall,  erect,  soldierly  looking,  and  they  gazed 
at  me  with  the  bland  gravity  of  the  East. 

Makand  Singh  came  hastily  forward,  a  splendid 
figure  of  a  man,  six  foot  two  or  thereabout,  and  ap- 
pearing even  taller  by  reason  of  his  turban.  He  spoke 
excellent  English. 

"It  is  very  muddy  for  a  lady  to  alight,"  he  said, 
and  instructed  one  of  the  men  to  bring  bags  of  sack- 
ing, which  were  laid  in  the  road. 

"You  are  seeing  us  under  very  unfavourable  condi- 
tions," he  said  as  he  helped  me  to  alight.  "But  there 
is  a  fire  if  you  are  cold." 

I  was  cold.  So  Makand  Singh  led  the  way  to  his 
living  quarters.  To  go  to  them  it  was  necessary  to 
pass  through  a  long  shed,  which  was  now  a  stable  for 
perhaps  a  dozen  horses.  At  a  word  of  command  the 
Indian  grooms  threw  themselves  against  the  horses' 


A  STRANGE  PARTY  273 

heads  and  pushed  them  back.  By  stepping  over  the 
ground  pegs  to  which  they  were  tethered  I  got  through 
the  shed  somehow  and  into  a  small  yard. 

Makand  Singh  turned  to  the  right,  and,  throwing 
open  the  low  door  of  a  peasant's  house,  stood  aside  to 
allow  me  to  enter.  "It  is  not  very  comfortable,"  he 
explained,  "but  it  is  the  best  we  have." 

He  was  so  tall  that  he  was  obliged  to  stoop  as  he 
entered  the  doorway.  Within  was  an  ordinary  peas- 
ant's kitchen,  but  cleaner  than  the  average.  In  spite 
of  the  weather  the  floor  boards  were  freshly  scrubbed. 
The  hearth  was  swept,  and  by  the  stove  lay  a  sleek 
tortoise-shell  cat.  There  was  a  wooden  dresser,  a 
chimney  shelf  with  rows  of  plates  standing  on  it,  and 
in  a  doorway  just  beyond  an  elderly  peasant  woman 
watching  us  curiously. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Makand  Singh,  "you  will  have 
coffee?" 

I  was  glad  to  accept,  and  the  young  officer,  who  had 
followed,  accepted  also.  We  sat  down  while  the  kettle 
was  placed  on  the  stove  and  the  fire  replenished.  I 
glanced  at  the  Indian  major's  tall  figure.  Even  sitting, 
he  was  majestic.  When  he  took  the  cape  off  he  was 
discovered  clothed  in  the  khaki  uniform  of  his  rank  in 
the  British  Army.  Except  for  the  olive  colour  of  his 
skin,  his  turban,  and  the  fact  that  his  beard — the  soft 
beard  of  one  who  has  never  shaved — was  drawn  up 
into  a  black  net  so  that  it  formed  a  perfect  crescent 
around  the  angle  of  his  jaw,  he  might  have  been  a 
gallant  and  interested  English  officer. 

For  the  situation  assuredly  interested  him.  His 
eyes  were  alert  and  keen.  When  he  smiled  he  showed 
rows  of  beautiful  teeth,  small  and  white.  And  al- 
though his  face  in  repose  was  grave,  he  smiled  often. 


274  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

He  superintended  the  making  of  the  coffee  by  the 
peasant  woman  and  instructed  her  to  prepare  the 
table. 

She  obeyed  pleasantly.  Indeed,  it  was  odd  to  see 
that  between  this  elderly  Frenchwoman  and  her 
strange  guests — people  of  whose  existence  on  the  earth 
I  dare  say  she  had  never  heard  until  this  war — there 
was  the  utmost  good  will.  Perhaps  the  Indians  are 
neater  than  other  troops.  Certainly  personal  cleanli- 
ness is  a  part  of  their  religion.  Anyhow,  whatever 
the  reason,  I  saw  no  evidence  of  sulkiness  toward  the 
Indians,  although  I  have  seen  surly  glances  directed 
toward  many  of  the  billeted  troops  of  other  nationali- 
ties. 

Conversation  was  rather  difficult.  We  had  no  com- 
mon ground  to  meet  on,  and  the  ordinary  currency  of 
polite  society  seemed  inadequate,  out  of  place. 

"The  weather  must  be  terrible  after  India,"  I  ven- 
tured. 

"We  do  not  mind  the  cold.  We  come  from  the 
north  of  India,  where  it  is  often  cold.  But  the  mud 
is  bad.  We  cannot  use  our  horses." 

"You  are  a  cavalry  regiment?"  I  asked,  out  of  my 
abysmal  ignorance. 

"We  are  Lancers.  Yes.  And  horses  are  not  useful 
in  this  sort  of  fighting." 

From  a  room  beyond  there  was  a  movement,  fol- 
lowed by  the  entrance  of  a  young  Frenchman  in  a 
British  uniform.  Makand  Singh  presented  him  and 
he  joined  the  circle  that  waited  for  coffee. 

The  newcomer  presented  an  enigma — a  Frenchman 
in  a  British  uniform  quartered  with  the  Indian  troops ! 
It  developed  that  he  was  a  pupil  from  the  Sorbonne, 
in  Paris,  and  was  an  interpreter.  Everywhere  after- 


A  STRANGE  PARTY  275 

ward  I  found  these  interpreters  with  the  British  Army 
— Frenchmen  who  for  various  reasons  are  disqualified 
from  entering  the  French  Army  in  active  service  and 
who  are  anxious  to  do  what  they  can.  They  wear 
the  British  uniform,  with  the  exception  that  instead 
of  the  stiff  crown  of  the  British  cap  theirs  is  soft. 
iThey  are  attached  to  every  battalion,  for  Tommy  At- 
kins is  in  a  strange  land  these  days,  a  land  that  knows 
no  more  English  than  he  knows  French. 

True,  he  carries  little  books  of  French  and  English 
which  tell  him  how  to  say  "Porter,  get  my  luggage 
and  take  it  to  a  cab,"  or  "Please  bring  me  a  laundry 
list,"  or  "Give  my  kind  regards  to  your  parents."  Ima- 
gine him  trying  to  find  the  French  for  "Look  out, 
they're  coming!"  to  call  to  a  French  neighbour,  in  the 
inevitable  mix-up  of  the  line  during  a  melee,  and  find- 
ing only  "These  trousers  do  not  fit  well,"  or  "I  would 
like  an  ice  and  then  a  small  piece  of  cheese." 

It  was  a  curious  group  that  sat  in  a  semicircle  around 
that  peasant  woman's  stove,  waiting  for  the  kettle  to 
boil — the  tall  Indian  major  with  his  aristocratic  face 
and  long,  quiet  hands,  the  young  English  officer  in  his 
Headquarters  Staff  uniform,  the  French  interpreter, 
and  I.  Just  inside  the  door  the  major's  Indian  serv- 
ant, tall,  impassive  and  turbaned,  stood  with  folded 
arms,  looking  over  our  heads.  And  at  the  table  the 
placid-faced  peasant  woman  cut  slices  of  yellow  bread, 
made  with  eggs  and  milk,  and  poured  our  coffee. 

It  was  very  good  coffee,  served  black.  The  woman 
brought  a  small  decanter  and  placed  it  near  me. 

"It  is  rum,"  said  the  major,  "and  very  good  in 
coffee." 

I  declined  the  rum.  The  interpreter  took  a  little. 
The  major  shook  his  head. 


276  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

"Although  they  say  that  a  Sikh  never  refuses  rum !" 
he  said,  smiling. 

Coffee  over,  we  walked  about  the  village.  Hardly  a 
village — a  cluster  of  houses  along  unpaved  lanes 
which  were  almost  impassable.  There  were  tumbling 
stables  full  of  horses,  groups  of  Indians  standing  un- 
der dripping  eaves  for  shelter,  sentries,  here  and  there 
a  peasant.  The  houses  were  replicas  of  the  one  where 
Makand  Singh  had  his  quarters. 

Although  it  was  still  raining,  a  dozen  Indian  Lan- 
cers were  exercising  their  horses.  They  dismounted 
and  stood  back  to  let  us  pass.  Behind  them,  as  they 
stood,  was  the  great  Cross. 

That  was  the  final  picture  I  had  of  the  village  of 
Ham  and  the  Second  Lahore  Lancers — the  turbaned 
Indians  with  their  dripping  horses,  the  grave  bow  of 
Makand  Singh  as  he  closed  the  door  of  the  car,  and 
behind  him  a  Scotch  corporal  in  kilt  and  cap,  with  a 
cigarette  tucked  behind  his  ear. 

We  went  on.  I  looked  back.  Makand  Singh  was 
making  his  careful  way  through  the  mud;  the  horses 
were  being  led  to  a  stable.  The  Cross  stood  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
SIR  JOHN  FRENCH 


THE  next  day  I  was  taken  along  the  English 
front,  between  the  first  and  the  second  line  of 
trenches,  from  Bethune,  the  southern  extremity  of  the 
line,  the  English  right  flank,  to  the  northern  end  of  the 
line  just  below  Ypres.  In  a  direct  line  the  British 
front  at  that  time  extended  along  some  twenty-seven 
miles.  But  the  line  was  irregular,  and  I  believe  was 
really  well  over  thirty. 

I  have  never  been  in  an  English  trench.  I  have 
been  close  enough  to  the  advance  trenches  to  be  shown 
where  they  lay,  and  to  see  the  slight  break  they  make 
in  the  flat  country.  I  was  never  in  a  dangerous  posi- 
tion at  the  English  front,  if  one  excepts  the  fact  that 
all  of  that  portion  of  the  country  between  the  two 
lines  of  trenches  is  exposed  to  shell  fire. 

No  shells  burst  near  me.  Bethune  was  being  inter- 
mittently shelled,  but  as  far  as  I  know  not  a  shell  fell 
in  the  town  while  I  was  there.  I  lunched  on  a  hill 
surrounded  by  batteries,  with  the  now  celebrated  towns 
of  Messines  and  Wytschaete  just  across  a  valley,  so 
that  one  could  watch  shells  bursting  over  them.  And 
still  nothing  threatened  my  peace  of  mind  or  my  phys- 
ical well-being.  And  yet  it  was  one  of  the  most  in- 
teresting days  of  a  not  uneventful  period. 

27? 


278  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

In  the  morning  I  was  taken,  still  in  General  Hu- 
guet's  car,  to  British  Headquarters  again,  to  meet  Sir 
John  French. 

I  confess  to  a  thrill  of  excitement  when  the  door 
into  his  private  office  was  opened  and  I  was  ushered 
in.  The  Field  Marshal  of  the  British  Army  was  stand- 
ing by  his  table.  He  came  forward  at  once  and  shook 
hands.  In  his  khaki  uniform,  with  the  scarlet  straps 
of  his  rank  on  collar  and  sleeves,  he  presented  a  most 
soldierly  and  impressive  appearance. 

A  man  of  middle  height,  squarely  and  compactly 
built,  he  moves  easily.  He  is  very  erect,  and  his 
tanned  face  and  grey  hair  are  in  strong  contrast.  A 
square  and  determined  jaw,  very  keen  blue  eyes  and 
a  humorous  mouth — that  is  my  impression  of  Sir 
John  French. 

"We  are  sending  you  along  the  lines,"  he  said  when 
I  was  seated.  "But  not  into  danger.  I  hope  you  do 
not  want  to  go  into  danger." 

I  wish  I  might  tell  of  the  conversation  that  followed. 
It  is  impossible.  Not  that  it  dealt  with  vital  matters ; 
but  it  was  understood  that  Sir  John  was  not  being 
interviewed.  He  was  taking  a  little  time  from  a  day 
that  must  have  been  crowded,  to  receive  with  beauti- 
ful courtesy  a  visitor  from  overseas.  That  was  all. 

There  can  be  no  objection,  I  think,  to  my  mention- 
ing one  or  two  things  he  spoke  of — of  his  admiration 
for  General  Foch,  whom  I  had  just  seen,  of  the  tribute 
he  paid  to  the  courage  of  the  Indian  troops,  and  of 
the  marvellous  spirit  all  the  British  troops  had  shown 
under  the  adverse  weather  conditions  prevailing.  All 
or  most  of  these  things  he  has  said  in  his  official  dis- 
patches. 

Other  things  were  touched  on — the  possible  dura- 


SIR  JOHN  FRENCH  279 

tion  of  the  war,  the  new  problems  of  what  is  virtually 
a  new  warfare,  the  possibility  of  a  pestilence  when 
warm  weather  came,  owing  to  inadequately  buried 
bodies.  The  Canadian  troops  had  not  arrived  at  the 
front  at  that  time,  although  later  in  the  day  I  saw 
their  transports  on  the  way,  or  I  am  sure  he  would 
have  spoken  of  them.  I  should  like  to  hear  what  he 
has  to  say  about  them  after  their  recent  gallant  fight- 
ing. I  should  like  to  see  his  fine  blue  eyes  sparkle. 

The  car  was  at  the  door,  and  the  same  young  officer 
who  had  taken  me  about  on  the  previous  day  entered 
the  room. 

"I  am  putting  you  in  his  care,"  said  Sir  John,  in- 
dicating the  new  arrival,  "because  he  has  a  charmed 
life.  Nothing  will  happen  if  you  are  with  him."  He 
eyed  the  tall  young  officer  affectionately.  "He  has 
been  fighting  since  the  beginning,"  he  said,  "handling 
a  machine  gun  in  all  sorts  of  terrible  places.  And  noth- 
ing ever  touches  him." 

A  discussion  followed  as  to  where  I  was  to  be  taken. 
There  was  a  culm  heap  near  the  Givenchy  brickyards 
which  was  rather  favoured  as  a  lookout  spot.  In  spite 
of  my  protests,  that  was  ruled  out  as  being  under  fire 
at  the  time.  Bethune  was  being  shelled,  but  not  se- 
verely. I  would  be  taken  to  Bethune  and  along  the 
road  behind  the  trenches.  But  nothing  was  to  happen 
to  me.  Sir  John  French  knitted  his  grey  brows,  and 
suggested  a  visit  to  a  wood  where  the  soldiers  had 
built  wooden  walks  and  put  up  signs,  naming  them 
Piccadilly,  Regent  Street,  and  so  on. 

"I  should  like  to  see  something,"  I  put  in  feebly. 

I  appreciated  their  kindly  solicitude,  but  after  all  I 
was  there  to  see  things ;  to  take  risks,  if  necessary,  but 
to  see. 


280  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

"Then,"  said  Sir  John  with  decision,  "we  will  send 
you  to  a  hill  from  which  you  can  see." 

The  trip  was  arranged  while  I  waited.  Then  he 
went  with  me  to  the  door  and  there  we  shook  hands. 
He  hoped  I  would  have  a  comfortable  trip,  and  bowed 
me  out  most  courteously.  But  in  the  doorway  he 
thought  of  something. 

"Have  you  a  camera  with  you?" 

I  had,  and  said  so ;  a  very  good  camera. 

"I  hope  you  do  not  mind  if  I  ask  you  not  to  use  it." 

I  did  not  mind.  I  promised  at  once  to  take  no 
pictures,  and  indeed  at  the  end  of  the  afternoon  I 
found  my  unfortunate  camera  on  the  floor,  much 
buffeted  and  kicked  about  and  entirely  ignored. 

The  interview  with  Sir  John  French  had  given  me 
an  entirely  unexpected  impression  of  the  Field  Mar- 
shal of  the  British  Army.  I  had  read  his  reports 
fully,  and  from  those  unemotional  reports  of  battles, 
of  movements  and  countermovements,  I  had  formed  a 
picture  of  a  great  soldier  without  imagination,  to  whom 
a  battle  was  an  issue,  not  a  great  human  struggle — 
an  austere  man. 

I  had  found  a  man  with  a  fighting  jaw  and  a  sen- 
sitive mouth;  and  a  man  greatly  beloved  by  the 
men  closest  to  him.  A  human  man;  a  soldier,  not  a 
writer. 

And  after  seeing  and  talking  with  Sir  John  French 
I  am  convinced  that  it  is  not  his  policy  that  dictates 
the  silence  of  the  army  at  the  front.  He  is  proud 
of  his  men,  proud  of  each  heroic  regiment,  of  every 
brave  deed.  He  would  like,  I  am  sure,  to  shout  to 
the  world  the  names  of  the  heroes  of  the  British  Army, 
to  publish  great  rolls  of  honour.  But  silence,  or  com- 
parative silence,  has  been  the  decree. 


SIR  JOHN  FRENCH  281 

There  must  be  long  hours  of  suspense  when  the 
Field  Marshal  of  the  British  Army  paces  the  floor  of 
that  grey  and  rose  brocade  drawing-room ;  hours  when 
the  orders  he  has  given  are  being  translated  into 
terms  of  action,  of  death,  of  wounds,  but  sometimes 
— thank  God! — into  terms  of  victory.  Long  hours, 
when  the  wires  and  the  dispatch  riders  bring  in  news, 
valiant  names,  gains,  losses;  names  that  are  not  to  be 
told;  brave  deeds  that,  lacking  chroniclers,  must  go 
unrecorded. 

Read  this,  from  the  report  Sir  John  French  sent 
out  only  a  day  or  so  before  I  saw  him : 

"The  troops  composing  the  Army  of  France  have 
been  subjected  to  as  severe  a  trial  as  it  is  possible  to 
impose  upon  any  body  of  men.  The  desperate  fight- 
ing described  in  my  last  dispatch  had  hardly  been 
brought  to  a  conclusion  when  they  were  called  upon 
to  face  the  rigours  and  hardships  of  a  winter  campaign. 
Frost  and  snow  have  alternated  with  periods  of  con- 
tinuous rain. 

"The  men  have  been  called  upon  to  stand  for  many 
hours  together  almost  up  to  their  waists  in  bitterly 
cold  water,  separated  by  only  one  or  two  hundred 
yards  from  a  most  vigilant  enemy. 

"Although  every  measure  which  science  and  medical 
knowledge  could  suggest  to  mitigate  these  hardships 
was  employed,  the  sufferings  of  the  men  have  been 
very  great. 

"In  spite  of  all  this  they  present  a  most  soldierlike, 
splendid,  though  somewhat  war-worn  appearance. 
Their  spirit  remains  high  and  confident ;  their  general 
health  is  excellent,  and  their  condition  most  satisfac- 
tory. 


282  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

"I  regard  it  as  most  unfortunate  that  circumstances 
have  prevented  any  account  of  many  splendid  in- 
stances of  courage  and  endurance,  in  the  face  of  al- 
most unparalleled  hardship  and  fatigue  in  war,  coming 
regularly  to  the  knowledge  of  the  public/' 

So  it  is  clearly  not  the  fault  of  Sir  John  French  that 
England  does  not  know  the  names  of  her  heroes,  or 
that  their  families  are  denied  the  comfort  of  knowing 
that  their  sons  fought  bravely  and  died  nobly.  It  is 
not  the  fault  of  the  British  people,  waiting  eagerly 
for  news  that  does  not  come.  Surely,  in  these  in- 
human times,  some  concession  should  be  made  to  the 
humanities.  War  is  not  moving  pawns  in  a  game; 
it  is  a  struggle  of  quivering  flesh  and  agonised  nerves, 
of  men  fighting  and  dying  for  ideals.  Heroism  is 
much  more  than  duty.  It  is  idealism.  No  leader  is 
truly  great  who  discounts  this  quality. 

America  has  known  more  of  the  great  human  in- 
terest of  this  war  than  England.  English  people  get 
the  news  from  great  American  dailies.  It  is  an  un- 
precedented situation,  and  so  far  the  English  people 
have  borne  it  almost  in  silence.  But  as  the  months 
go  on  and  only  bare  official  dispatches  reach  them, 
there  is  a  growing  tendency  to  protest.  They  want, 
the  truth,  a  picture  of  conditions.  They  want  to  know 
what  their  army  is  doing;  what  their  sons  are  doing. 
And  they  have  a  right  to  know.  They  are  making 
tremendous  sacrifices,  and  they  have  a  right  to  know 
to  what  end. 

The  greatest  agent  in  the  world  for  moulding  public 
opinion  is  the  press.  The  Germans  know  this,  and 
have  used  their  journals  skilfully.  To  underestimate 
the  power  of  the  press,  to  fail  to  trust  to  its  good  will 


SIR  JOHN  FRENCH  283 

and  discretion,  is  to  refuse  to  wield  the  mightiest  in- 
strument in  the  world  for  influencing  national  thought 
and  national  action.  At  times  of  great  crisis  the  press 
has  always  shown  itself  sane,  conservative,  safe,  emi- 
nently to  be  trusted. 

The  English  know  the  power  of  the  great  modern 
newspaper,  not  only  to  reflect  but  to  form  public  opin- 
ion. They  have  watched  the  American  press  because 
they  know  to  what  extent  it  influences  American 
policy. 

There  is  talk  of  conscription  in  England  to-day. 
Why?  Ask  the  British  people.  Ask  the  London 
Times.  Ask  rural  England  where,  away  from  the 
tramp  of  soldiers  in  the  streets,  the  roll  of  drums, 
the  visual  evidence  of  a  great  struggle,  patriotism  is 
asked  to  feed  on  the  ashes  of  war. 

Self -depreciation  in  a  nation  is  as  great  an  error  as 
over-complacency.  Lack  of  full  knowledge  is  the 
cause  of  much  of  the  present  British  discontent. 

Let  the  British  people  be  told  what  their  army  is 
doing.  Let  Lord  Kitchener  announce  its  deeds,  its 
courage,  its  vast  unselfishness.  Let  him  put  the  torch 
of  publicity  to  the  national  pride  and  see  it  turn  to  a 
white  flame  of  patriotism.  Then  it  will  be  possible  to 
tear  the  recruiting  posters  from  the  walls  of  London, 
and  the  remotest  roads  of  England  will  echo  to  the 
tramp  of  marching  men. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 
ALONG  THE  GREAT  BETHUNE  ROAD 


A  GAIN  and  again  through  these  chapters  I  have 
•*  *•  felt  apologetic  for  the  luxurious  manner  in 
which  I  frequently  saw  the  war.  And  so  now  I  hesi- 
tate to  mention  the  comfort  of  that  trip  along  the 
British  lines;  the  substantial  and  essentially  British 
foresight  and  kindness  that  had  stocked  the  car  with 
sandwiches  wrapped  in  white  paper;  the  good  roads; 
the  sense  of  general  well-being  that  spread  like  a  con- 
tagion from  a  well-fed  and  well-cared-for  army.  There 
is  something  about  the  British  Army  that  inspires  one 
with  confidence.  It  is  a  pity  that  those  people  who  sit 
at  home  in  Great  Britain  and  shrug  their  shoulders 
over  the  daily  papers  cannot  see  their  army  at  the 
front. 

It  is  not  a  roast-beef  stolidity.  It  is  rather  the 
steadiness  of  calm  eyes  and  good  nerves,  of  physically 
fit  bodies  and  clean  minds.  I  felt  it  when  I  saw 
Kitchener's  army  of  clear-eyed  boys  drilling  in  Hyde 
Park.  I  got  it  from  the  quiet  young  officer,  still  in  his 
twenties,  who  sat  beside  me  in  the  car,  and  who,  hav- 
ing been  in  the  war  from  the  beginning,  handling  a 
machine  gun  all  through  the  battle  of  Ypres,  when  his 
regiment,  the  Grenadier  Guards,  suffered  so  horribly, 
was  willing  to  talk  about  everything  but  what  he  had 
done. 

284 


ALONG  THE  GREAT  BETHUNE  ROAD    285 

We  went  first  to  Bethune.  The  roads  as  we  ap- 
proached the  front  were  crowded,  but  there  was  no 
disorder.  There  were  motor  bicycles  and  side-cars 
carrying  dispatch  riders  and  scouts,  travelling  kitchens, 
great  lorries,  small  light  cars  for  supplies  needed  in  a 
hurry — cars  which  make  greater  speed  than  the  motor 
vans — omnibuses  full  of  troops,  and  steam  tractors  or 
caterpillar  engines  for  hauling  heavy  guns. 

The  day  was  sunny  and  cold.  The  rain  of  the  day 
before  had  turned  to  snow  in  the  night,  and  the  fields 
were  dazzling. 

"In  the  east,"  said  the  officer  with  me,  "where  there 
is  always  snow  in  the  winter,  the  Germans  have  sent 
out  to  their  troops  white  helmet  covers  and  white 
smocks  to  cover  the  uniforms.  But  snow  is  compara- 
tively rare  here,  and  it  has  not  been  considered  neces- 
sary." 

At  a  small  bridge  ten  miles  from  Bethune  he  pointed 
out  a  house  as  marking  the  farthest  advance  of  the 
German  Army,  reached  about  the  eleventh  of  Octo- 
ber. There  was  no  evidence  of  the  hard  fighting  that 
had  gone  on  along  this  road.  It  was  a  peaceful  scene, 
the  black  branches  of  the  overarching  trees  lightly 
powdered  with  snow.  But  the  snowy  fields  were  full 
of  unmarked  mounds.  Another  year,  and  the  mounds 
will  have  sunk  to  the  level  of  the  ground.  Another 
year,  and  only  history  will  tell  the  story  of  that  Octo- 
ber of  1914  along  the  great  Bethune  road. 

An  English  aeroplane  was  overhead.  There  were 
armoured  cars  on  the  road,  going  toward  the  front; 
top-heavy  machines  that  made  surprisingly  little  noise, 
considering  their  weight.  Some  had  a  sort  of  con- 
ning tower  at  the  top.  They  looked  sombre,  menac- 
ing. The  driving  of  these  cars  over  slippery  roads 


286  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

must  be  difficult.  Like  the  vans,  they  keep  as  near 
the  centre  of  the  road  as  possible,  allowing  lighter 
traffic  to  turn  out  to  pass  them.  A  van  had  broken 
down  and  was  being  repaired  at  one  of  the  wayside 
repair  shops  maintained  everywhere  along  the  roads 
for  this  war  of  machinery.  Men  in  khaki  with  leather 
aprons  were  working  about  it,  while  the  driver  stood 
by,  smoking  a  pipe. 

As  we  went  on  we  encountered  the  Indian  troops 
again.  The  weather  was  better,  and  they  thronged  the 
roads,  driving  their  tiny  carts,  cleaning  arms  and 
accoutrements  in  sunny  doorways,  proud  and  haughty 
in  appearence  even  when  attending  to  the  most  menial 
duties.  From  the  little  ammunition  carts,  like  toy 
wagons,  they  gazed  gravely  at  the  car,  and  at  the  un- 
heard-of spectacle  of  a  woman  inside.  Side  by  side 
with  the  Indians  were  Scots  in  kilts,  making  up 
with  cheerful  impudence  for  the  Indians'  lack  of 
curiosity. 

There  were  more  Ghurkas,  carrying  rifles  and  walk- 
ing lightly  beside  forage  carts  driven  by  British  Tom- 
mies. There  were  hundreds  of  these  carts  taking 
hay  to  the  cavalry  divisions.  The  Ghurkas  looked 
more  Japanese  than  ever  in  the  clear  light.  Their 
broad-brimmed  khaki  hats  have  a  strap  that  goes  under 
the  chin.  The  strap  or  their  black  slanting  eyes  or 
perhaps  their  rather  flattened  noses  and  pointed  chins 
give  them  a  look  of  cruelty  that  the  other  Indian 
troops  do  not  have.  They  are  hard  and  relentless 
fighters,  I  believe;  and  they  look  it. 

The  conversation  in  the  car  turned  to  the  feeding 
of  the  army. 

"The  British  Army  is  exceedingly  well  fed,"  said 
the  young  officer. 


ALONG  THE  GREAT  BETHUNE  ROAD    287 

"In  the  trenches  also  ?" 

"Always.  The  men  are  four  days  in  the  trenches 
and  four  out.  When  the  weather  is  too  bad  for  any- 
thing but  sniping,  the  inactivity  of  the  trench  life 
and  the  abundant  ration  gets  them  out  of  condition. 
On  their  four  days  in  reserve  it  is  necessary  to  drill ' 
them  hard  to  keep  them  in  condition." 

This  proved  to  be  the  explanation  of  the  battalions 
we  met  everywhere,  marching  briskly  along  the  roads,; 
I  do  not  recall  the  British  ration  now,  but  it  includes, 
in  addition  to  meat  and  vegetables,  tea,  cheese,  jam 
and  bacon — probably  not  all  at  once,  but  giving  that 
variety  of  diet  so  lacking  to  the  unfortunate  Belgian 
Army.  Food  is  one  of  the  principal  munitions  of 
war.  No  man  fights  well  with  an  empty  stomach. 
Food  sinks  into  the  background  only  when  it  is  assured 
and  plentiful.  Deprived  of  it,  its  need  becomes  in- 
sistent, an  obsession  that  drives  away  every  other 
thought. 

So  the  wise  British  Army  feeds  its  men  well,  and 
lets  them  think  of  other  things,  such  as  war  and  fight- 
ing and  love  of  country  and  brave  deeds. 

But  food  has  not  always  been  plentiful  in  the 
British  Army.  There  were  times  last  fall  when,  what 
with  German  artillery  bombardment  and  shifting  lines, 
it  was  difficult  to  supply  the  men. 

"My  servant,"  said  the  officer,  "found  a  hare  some- 
where, and  in  a  deserted  garden  a  handful  of  carrots. 
Word  came  to  the  trench  where  I  was  stationed  that 
at  dark  that  night  he  would  bring  out  a  stew.  We  were 
very  hungry  and  we  waited  eagerly.  But  just  as  it 
was  cooked  and  ready  a  German  shell  came  down 
the  chimney  of  the  house  where  he  was  working  and 
blew  up  stove  and  stew  and  everything.  It  was 


288  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

one  of  the  greatest  disappointments  I  ever  remem- 
ber." 

We  were  in  Bethune  at  last — a  crowded  town,  larger 
than  any  I  had  seen  since  I  left  Dunkirk.  So  con- 
gested were  its  narrow  streets  with  soldiers,  mounted 
and  on  foot,  and  with  all  the  ghastly  machinery  of 
war,  that  a  traffic  squad  had  taken  charge  and  was 
directing  things.  On  some  streets  it  was  possible  to 
go  only  in  one  direction.  I  looked  about  for  the  signs 
of  destruction  that  had  grown  so  familiar  to  me,  but 
I  saw  none.  Evidently  the  bombardment  of  Bethune 
had  not  yet  done  much  damage. 

A  squad  of  artillerymen  marched  by  in  perfect 
step ;  their  faces  were  keen,  bronzed.  They  were  fine- 
looking,  well-set-up  men,  as  smart  as  English  artillery- 
men always  are.  I  watched  them  as  long  as  I  could 
see  them. 

We  had  lost  our  way,  owing  to  the  regulations  of 
the  traffic  squad.  It  was  necessary  to  stop  and  inquire. 
Then  at  last  we  crossed  a  small  bridge  over  the  canal, 
and  were  on  our  way  along  the  front,  behind  the 
advanced  trenches  and  just  in  front  of  the  second 
line. 

For  a  few  miles  the  country  was  very  level.  The 
firing  was  on  our  right,  the  second  line  of  trenches  on 
3ur  left.  The  congestion  of  Bethune  had  given  way 
to  the  extreme  peace  in  daylight  of  the  region  just 
behind  the  trenches.  There  were  few  wagons,  few 
soldiers.  Nothing  could  be  seen  except  an  occasional 
cloud  where  shrapnel  had  burst.  The  British  Army 
was  keeping  me  safe,  as  it  had  promised ! 

There  were,  however,  barbed-wire  entanglements 
everywhere,  built,  I  thought,  rather  higher  than  the 
French.  Roads  to  the  right  led  to  the  advanced 


ALONG  THE  GREAT  BETHUNE  ROAD    289 

trenches,  empty  roads  which  at  night  are  thronged 
with  men  going  to  the  front  or  coming  back. 

Here  and  there  one  saw  a  sentry,  and  behind  him 
a  tent  of  curious  mottled  shades  of  red,  brown  and 
green. 

"They  look  as  though  they  were  painted,"  I  said, 
rather  bewildered. 

"They  are,"  the  officer  replied  promptly.  "From 
an  aeroplane  these  tents  are  absolutely  impossible  to 
locate.  They  merge  into  the  colors  of  the  fields." 

Now  and  then  at  a  crossroads  it  was  necessary  to 
inquire  our  way.  I  had  no  wish  to  run  into  danger, 
but  I  was  conscious  of  a  wild  longing  to  have  the  car 
take  the  wrong  turning  and  land  abruptly  at  the  ad- 
vance trenches.  Nothing  of  the  sort  happened,  how- 
ever. 

We  passed  small  buildings  converted  into  field  hos- 
pitals and  flying  the  white  flag  with  a  red  cross. 

"There  are  no  nurses  in  these  hospitals,"  explained 
the  officer.  "Only  one  surgeon  and  a  few  helpers. 
The  men  are  brought  here  from  the  trenches,  and 
then  taken  back  at  night  in  ambulances  to  the  railroad 
or  to  base  hospitals." 

"Are  there  no  nurses  at  all  along  the  British  front?" 

"None  whatever.  There  are  no  women  here  in 
any  capacity.  That  is  why  the  men  are  so  surprised 
to  see  you." 

Here  and  there,  behind  the  protection  of  groves  and 
small  thickets,  were  temporary  camps,  sometimes  tents, 
sometimes  tent-shaped  shelters  of  wood.  There  were 
batteries  on  the  right  everywhere,  great  guns  con- 
cealed in  farmyards  or,  like  the  guns  I  had  seen  on 
the  French  front,  in  artificial  hedges.  Some  of  them 
were  firing;  but  the  firing  of  a  battery  amounts  to 


2QO  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

nothing  but  a  great  noise  in  these  days  of  long  ranges. 
Somewhere  across  the  valley  the  shells  would  burst,  we 
knew  that;  that  was  all. 

The  conversation  turned  to  the  Prince  of  Wales, 
and  to  the  responsibility  it  was  to  the  various  officers 
to  have  him  in  the  trenches.  Strenuous  efforts  had 
been  made  to  persuade  him  to  be  satisfied  with  the 
work  at  headquarters,  where  he  is  attached  to  Sir 
John  French's  staff.  But  evidently  the  young  heir 
to  the  throne  of  England  is  a  man  in  spite  of  his  youth. 
He  wanted  to  go  out  and  fight,  and  he  had  at  last 
secured  permission. 

"He  has  had  rather  remarkable  training,"  said  the 
young  officer,  who  was  also  his  friend.  "First  he  was 
in  Calais  with  the  transport  service.  Then  he  came 
to  headquarters,  and  has  seen  how  things  are  done 
there.  And  now  he  is  at  the  front." 

Quite  unexpectedly  round  a  turn  in  the  road  we 
came  on  a  great  line  of  Canadian  transports — Ameri- 
can-built lorries  with  khaki  canvas  tops.  Canadians 
were  driving  them,  Canadians  were  guarding  them. 
It  gave  me  a  homesick  thrill  at  once  to  see  these  other 
Americans,  of  types  so  familiar  to  me,  there  in  North- 
ern France. 

Their  faces  were  eager  as  they  pushed  ahead.  Some 
|  of  the  tent-shaped  wooden  buildings  were  to  be  tem- 
porary barracks  for  them.  In  one  place  the  transports 
had  stopped  and  the  men  were  cooking  a  meal  beside 
the  road.  Some  one  had  brought  a  newspaper  and  a 
crowd  of  men  had  gathered  round  it.  I  wondered  if 
it  was  an  American  paper.  I  would  like  to  have  stood 
on  the  running  board  of  the  machine,  as  we  went  past, 
and  called  out  that  I,  too,  was  an  American,  and  God 
bless  them! 


ALONG  THE  GREAT  BETHUNE  ROAD    291 

But  I  fancy  the  young  officer  with  me  would  have 
been  greatly  disconcerted  at  such  an  action.  The 
English  are  not  given  to  such  demonstrations.  But 
the  Canadians  would  have  understood,  I  know. 

Since  that  time  the  reports  have  brought  great  news 
of  these  Canadian  troops,  of  their  courage,  of  the  loss 
of  almost  all  their  officers  in  the  fighting  at  Neuve 
Chapelle.  But  that  sunny  morning,  when  I  saw  them 
in  the  north  of  France,  they  were  untouched  by  bat- 
tle or  sudden  death.  Their  faces  were  eager,  intent, 
earnest.  They  had  come  a  long  distance  and  now  they 
had  arrived.  And  what  next  ? 

Into  this  scene  of  war  unexpectedly  obtruded  itself 
a  bit  of  peace.  A  great  cart  came  down  a  side  road, 
drawn  by  two  white  oxen  with  heavy  wooden  yokes. 
Piled  high  in  the  cart  were  sugar  beets.  Some  thrifty 
peasant  was  salvaging  what  was  left  of  his  crop.  The 
sight  of  the  oxen  reminded  me  that  I  had  seen  very 
few  horses. 

"They  are  farther  back,"  said  the  officer.  "Of 
course,  as  you  know,  for  the  last  two  or  three  months 
it  has  been  impossible  to  use  the  cavalry  at  all." 

Then  he  told  me  a  curious  thing.  He  said  that 
during  the  long  winter  wait  the  cavalry  horses  got 
much  out  of  condition.  The  side  roads  were  thick 
with  mud  and  the  main  roads  were  being  reserved  for 
transports.  Adequate  exercises  for  the  cavalry  seemed 
impossible.  One  detachment  discovered  what  it  con- 
sidered a  bright  solution,  and  sent  to  England  for 
beagle  hounds.  Morning  after  morning  the  men  rode 
after  the  hounds  over  the  flat  fields  of  France.  It  was 
a  welcome  distraction  and  it  kept  the  horses  in  work- 
ing trim. 

But  the  French  objected.    They  said  their  country 


292  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

was  at  war,  was  being  devastated  by  an  alien  army. 
They  considered  riding  to  hounds,  no  matter  for  what 
purpose,  an  indecorous,  almost  an  inhuman,  thing  to 
do  under  the  circumstances.  So  the  hounds  were  sent 
.  back  to  England,  and  the  cavalry  horses  are  now  exer- 
cised in  dejected  strings  along  side  roads. 

As  we  went  north  the  firing  increased  in  intensity. 
More  English  batteries  were  at  work;  the  German 
response  was  insistent. 

We  were  approaching  Ypres,  this  time  from  the 
English  side,  and  the  great  artillery  duel  of  late  Feb- 
ruary was  in  progress. 

The  country  was  slightly  rolling.  Its  unevenness 
permitted  more  activity  along  our  road.  Batteries 
were  drawn  up  at  rest  in  the  fields  here  and  there.  In 
one  place  a  dozen  food  kitchens  in  the  road  were 
cooking  the  midday  meal,  the  khaki-clad  cooks  fre- 
quently smoking  as  they  worked. 

Ahead  of  this  loomed  two  hills.  They  rose  abruptly, 
treeless  and  precipitous.  On  the  one  nearest  to  the 
German  lines  was  a  ruined  tower. 

"The  tower,"  said  the  officer,  "would  have  been 
a  charming  place  for  luncheon.  But  the  hill  has  been 
shelled  steadily  for  several  days.  I  have  no  idea  why 
the  Germans  are  shelling  it.  There  is  nobody  there." 


CHAPTER  XXX 
THE   MILITARY    SECRET 


second  hill  was  our  destination.  At  the  foot 
•*•  of  it  the  car  stopped  and  we  got  out.  A  steep 
path  with  here  and  there  a  wooden  step  led  to  the 
summit.  At  the  foot  of  the  path  was  a  sentry  and 
behind  him  one  of  the  multicoloured  tents. 

"Are  you  a  good  climber?"  asked  the  officer. 

I  said  I  was  and  we  set  out.  The  path  extended 
only  a  part  of  the  way,  to  a  place  perhaps  two  hundred 
feet  beyond  the  road,  where  what  we  would  call  a 
cyclone  cellar  in  America  had  been  dug  out  of  the 
hillside.  Like  the  others  of  the  sort  I  had  seen,  it  was 
muddy  and  uninviting,  practically  a  cave  with  a  roof 
of  turf. 

The  path  ceased,  and  it  was  necessary  to  go  diag- 
onally up  the  steep  hillside  through  the  snow.  From 
t  numberless  guns  at  the  base  of  the  hill  came  steady 
reports,  and  as  we  ascended  it  was  explained  to  me 
that  I  was  about  to  visit  the  headquarters  of  Major 
General  H ,  commanding  an  army  division. 

"The  last  person  I  brought  here,"  said  the  young 
officer,  smiling,  "was  the  Prince  of  Wales." 

We  reached  the  top  at  last.  There  was  a  tiny 
farmhouse,  a  low  stable  with  a  thatched  roof,  and, 
towering  over  all,  the  arms  of  a  great  windmill.  Chick- 

293 


294  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 



ens  cackled  round  my  feet,  a  pig  grunted  in  a  corner, 
and  apparently  from  directly  underneath  came  the 
ear-splitting  reports  of  a  battery  as  it  fired. 

"Perhaps  I  would  better  go  ahead  and  tell  them 
you  are  coming,"  said  the  officer.  "These  people 
have  probably  not  seen  a  woman  in  months,  and 
the  shock  would  be  too  severe.  We  must  break  it 
gently." 

So  he  went  ahead,  and  I  stood  on  the  crest  of  that 
wind-swept  hill  and  looked  across  the  valley  to  Mes- 
sines,  to  Wytschaete  and  Ypres. 

The  battlefield  lay  spread  out  like  a  map.  As  I 
looked,  clouds  of  smoke  over  Messines  told  of  the 
bursting  of  shells. 

Major  General  H came  hurrying1  out.  His 

quarters  occupy  the  only  high  ground,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  near-by  hill  with  its  ruined  tower,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Ypres.  Here,  a  week  or  so  before, 
had  come  the  King  of  Belgium,  to  look  with  tragic 
eyes  at  all  that  remained  to  him  of  his  country.  Here 
had  come  visiting  Russian  princes  from  the  eastern 
field,  the  King  of  England,  the  Prince  of  Wales.  No 
obscurities — except  myself — had  ever  penetrated  so 
far  into  the  fastness  of  the  British  lines. 

Later  on  in  the  day  I  wrote  my  name  in  a  visitors' 
book  the  officers  have  established  there,  wrote  under 
sprawling  royal  signatures,  under  the  boyish  hand  of 
the  Prince  of  Wales,  the  irregular  chirography  of 
Albert  of  Belgium,  the  blunt  and  soldierly  name  of 
General  Joffre. 

There  are  six  officers  stationed  in  the  farmhouse, 

composing  General  H 's  staff.  And,  as  things 

turned  out,  we  did  not  require  the  white-paper  sand- 
wiches, for  we  were  at  once  invited  to  luncheon. 


THE  MILITARY  SECRET  295 

"Not  a  very  elaborate  luncheon,"  said  General 
H — i — ,  "but  it  will  give  us  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  to 
share  it." 

While  the  extra  places  were  being  laid  we  went  to 
the  brow  of  the  hill.  Across  the  valley  at  the  foot  of 
a  wooded  ridge  were  the  British  trenches.  The 
ground  rose  in  front  of  them,  thickly  covered  with 
trees,  to  the  German  position  on  the  ridge. 

"It  looks  from  here  like  a  very  uncomfortable  po- 
sition," I  said.  "The  German  position  is  better,  isn't 
it?" 

"It  is,"  said  General  H grimly.  "But  we  shall 

take  that  hill  before  long." 

I  am  not  sure,  and  my  many  maps  do  not  say,  but 
there  is  little  doubt  in  my  mind  that  the  hill  in  question 
is  the  now  celebrated  Hill  60,  of  which  so  much  has 
been  published. 

As  we  looked  across  shells  were  bursting  round  the 
church  tower  of  Messines,  and  the  batteries  beneath 
were  sending  out  ear-splitting  crashes  of  noise.  Ypres, 
less  than  three  miles  away,  but  partly  hidden  in  mist, 
was  echoing  the  bombardment.  And  to  complete  the 
pandemonium  of  sound,  as  we  turned,  a  mitrailleuse 
in  the  windmill  opened  fire  behind  us. 

"Practice !"  said  General  H as  I  started.  "It  is 

noisy  here,  I'm  afraid." 

We  went  through  the  muddy  farmyard  back  to  the 
house.  The  staff  was  waiting  and  we  sat  down  at 
once  to  luncheon  at  a  tiny  pine  table  drawn  up  before 
a  window.  It  was  not  a  good  luncheon.  The  French 
wine  was  like  vinegar,  the  food  the  ordinary  food  of 
the  peasant  whose  house  it  was.  But  it  was  a  cheer- 
ful meal  in  spite  of  the  food,  and  in  spite  of  a  boil  on 
General  H 's  neck.  The  marvel  of  a  woman  being 


2g6  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

there  seemed  to  grow,  not  diminish,  as  the  meal  went 
on. 

"Next  week,"  said  General  H ,  "we  are  to 

have  two  parties  of  correspondents  here.  The  penny 
papers  come  first,  and  later  on  the  ha'pennies!" 

That  brought  the  conversation,  as  usual,  to  the  feel- 
ing about  the  war  in  America.  Like  all  the  other  offi- 
cers I  had  met,  these  men  were  anxious  to  have  things 
correctly  reported  in  America,  being  satisfied  that 
the  true  story  of  the  war  would  undoubtedly  influence 
any  wavering  of  public  opinion  in  favour  of  the  Allies. 

One  of  the  officers  was  a  Canadian,  and  for  his 
benefit  somebody  told  the  following  story,  possibly  by 
now  familiar  to  America. 

Some  of  the  Canadian  troops  took  with  them  to 
England  a  bit  of  the  dash  and  impatience  of  disci- 
pline of  the  great  Northwest.  The  story  in  question 
is  of  a  group  of  soldiers  at  night  passing  a  sentry, 
who  challenges  them : 

"Halt!  Who  goes  there?" 

"Black  Watch." 

"Advance,  Black  Watch,  and  all's  well." 

The  next  group  is  similarly  challenged: 

"Halt!  Who  goes  there?" 

"Cameronians." 

"Advance,  Cameronians." 

The  third  group  comes  on. 

"Halt!  Who  goes  there?" 

"What  the  devil  is  that  to  you?" 

"Advance,  Canadians !" 

In  the  burst  of  mirth  that  followed  the  Canadian 
officer  joined.  Then  he  told  an  anecdote  also : 

"British  recruits,  practising  passing  a  whispered 
order  from  one  end  of  a  trench  to  the  other,  received 


THE  MILITARY  SECRET  297 

this  message  to  pass  along:  'Enemy  advancing  on 
right  flank.  Send  re-enforcements.'  When  the  mes- 
sage reached  the  other  end  of  the  trench,"  he  said,  "it 
was :  'Enemy  advancing  with  ham  shank.  Send  three 
and  fourpence!'" 

It  was  a  gay  little  meal,  the  only  breaks  in  the  con- 
versation when  the  great  guns  drowned  out  our  voices. 
I  wonder  how  many  of  those  round  that  table  are  liv- 
ing to-day.  Not  all,  it  is  almost  certain.  The  German 
Army  almost  broke  through  the  English  line  at  that 
very  point  in  the  late  spring.  The  brave  Canadians 
have  lost  almost  all  their  officers  in  the  field  and  a 
sickening  percentage  of  their  men.  That  little  valley 
must  have  run  deep  with  blood  since  I  saw  it  that  day 
in  the  sunlight. 

Luncheon  was  over.  I  wrote  my  name  in  the 
visitors'  book,  to  the  tune  of  such  a  bombardment  as 
almost  forbade  speech,  and  accompanied  by  General 

H we  made  our  way  down  the  steep  hillside  to 

the  car. 

"Some  time  to-night  I  shall  be  in  England,"  I  said 
as  I  settled  myself  for  the  return  trip. 

The  smile  died  on  the  general's  face.  It  was  as  if, 
in  speaking  of  home,  I  had  touched  the  hidden  chord 
of  gravity  and  responsibility  that  underlay  the  cheer- 
fulness of  that  cheery  visit. 

"England!"  he  said.     That  was  all. 

I  looked  back  as  the  car  started  on.  A  battery  was 
moving  up  along  the  road  behind  the  hill.  The  sen- 
try stood  by  his  low  painted  tent.  The  general  was 
watching  the  car,  his  hand  shading  his  eyes  against  the 
glare  of  the  winter  sun.  Behind  him  rose  his  lonely 
hill,  white  with  snow,  with  the  little  path  leading,  by 
devious  ways,  up  its  steep  and  shining  side. 


298  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

It  was  not  considered  advisable  to  return  by  the 
road  behind  the  trenches.  The  late  afternoon  artil- 
lery duel  was  going  on.  So  we  turned  off  a  few 
miles  south  of  the  hill  and  left  war  behind  us. 

Not  altogether,  of  course.  There  were  still  trans- 
ports and  troops.  And  at  an  intersection  of  three 
roads  we  were  abruptly  halted.  A  line  of  military 
cars  was  standing  there,  all  peremptorily  held  up  by 
a  handful  of  soldiers. 

The  young  officer  got  out  and  inquired.  There  was 
little  time  to  spare,  for  I  was  to  get  to  Calais  that 
evening,  and  to  run  the  Channel  blockade  some  time 
in  the  night. 

The  officer  came  back  soon,  smiling. 

"A  military  secret!"  he  said.  "We  shall  have  to 
wait  a  little.  The  road  is  closed." 

So  I  sat  in  the  car  and  the  military  secret  went  by. 
I  cannot  tell  about  it  except  that  it  was  thrillingly 
interesting.  My  hands  itched  to  get  out  my  camera 
and  photograph  it,  just  as  they  itch  now  to  write  about 
it.  But  the  mystery  of  what  I  saw  on  the  highroad 
back  of  the  British  lines  is  not  mine  to  tell.  It  must 
die  with  me ! 

My  visit  to  the  British  lines  was  over. 

As  I  look  back  I  find  that  the  one  thing  that  stands 
out  with  distinctness  above  everything  else  is  the 
quality  of  the  men  that  constitute  the  British  Army  in 
the  field.  I  had  seen  thousands  in  that  one  day.  But 
I  had  seen  them  also  north  of  Ypres,  at  Dunkirk,  at 
Boulogne  and  Calais,  on  the  Channel  boats.  I  have 
said  before  that  they  show  race.  But  it  is  much  more 
than  a  matter  of  physique.  It  is  a  thing  of  steady 
eyes,  of  high-held  heads,  of  a  clean  thrust  of  jaw. 

The  English  are  not  demonstrative.    London,  com- 


THE  MILITARY  SECRET  299 

pared  with  Paris,  is  normal.  British  officers  at  the 
front  and  at  headquarters  treat  the  war  as  a  part  of 
the  day's  work,  a  thing  not  to  talk  about  but  to  do. 
But  my  frequent  meetings  with  British  soldiers,  naval 
men,  members  of  the  flying  contingent  and  the  army 
medical  service,  revealed  under  the  surface  of  each 
man's  quiet  manner  a  grimness,  a  red  heat  of  patriot- 
ism, a  determination  to  fight  fair  but  to  fight  to  the 
death. 

They  concede  to  the  Germans,  with  the  British 
sense  of  fairness,  courage,  science,  infinite  resource 
and  patriotism.  Two  things  they  deny  them,  civilisa- 
tion and  humanity — civilisation  in  its  spiritual,  not  its 
material,  side;  humanity  of  the  sort  that  is  the  Eng- 
lishman's creed  and  his  religion — the  safeguarding 
of  noncombatants,  the  keeping  of  the  national  word 
and  the  national  honour. 

My  visit  to  the  English  lines  was  over.  I  had  seen 
no  valiant  charges,  no  hand-to-hand  fighting.  But 
in  a  way  I  had  had  a  larger  picture.  I  had  seen  the 
efficiency  of  the  methods  behind  the  lines,  the  abun- 
dance of  supplies,  the  spirit  that  glowed  in  the  eyes  of 
every  fighting  man.  I  had  seen  the  colonial  children 
of  England  in  the  field,  volunteers  who  had  risen  to  the 
call  of  the  mother  country.  I  had  seen  and  talked 
with  the  commander-in-chief  of  the  British  forces, 
and  had  come  away  convinced  that  the  mother 
country  had  placed  her  honour  in  fine  and  capable 
hands.  And  I  had  seen,  between  the  first  and  second 
lines  of  trenches,  an  army  of  volunteers  and  patriots 
—and  gentlemen. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
QUEEN  MARY  OF  ENGLAND 


/TpHE  great  European  war  affects  profoundly  all 
-••  the  women  of  each  nation  involved.  It  affects 
doubly  the  royal  women.  The  Queen  of  England, 
the  Czarina  of  Russia,  the  Queen  of  the  Belgians,  the 
Empress  of  Germany,  each  carries  in  these  momen- 
tous days  a  frightful  burden.  The  young  Prince  of 
Wales  is  at  the  front;  the  King  of  the  Belgians  has 
been  twice  wounded;  the  Empress  of  Germany  has 
her  sons  as  well  as  her  husband  in  the  field. 

In  addition  to  these  cares  these  women  of  exalted 
rank  have  the  responsibility  that  comes  always  to  the 
very  great.  To  see  a  world  crisis  approaching,  to 
know  every  detail  by  which  it  has  been  furthered  or 
retarded,  to  realise  at  last  its  inevitability — to  see,  in 
a  word,  every  movement  of  the  great  drama  and  to 
be  unable  to  check  its  d&nouement — that  has  been  a 
part  of  their  burden.  And  when  the  denouement  came, 
to  sink  their  private  anxieties  in  the  public  welfare, 
to  assume,  not  a  double  immunity  but  a  double  re- 
sponsibility to  their  people,  has  been  the  other  part. 

It  has  required  heroism  of  a  high  order.  It  is,  to 
a  certain  extent,  a  new  heroism,  almost  a  demonstra- 
tion of  the  new  faith  whose  foundation  is  respon- 
sibility— responsibility  of  a  nation  to  its  sons,  of  rul- 
ers to  their  people,  of  a  man  to  his  neighbour. 

300 


QUEEN  MARY  OF  ENGLAND  301 

It  has  been  my  privilege  to  meet  and  speak  witH 
two  of  these  royal  women,  with  the  Queen  of  Eng- 
land and  with  the  Queen  of  the  Belgians.  In  each 
instance  I  carried  away  with  me  an  ineradicable  im- 
pression of  this  quality — of  a  grave  and  wearing  re- 
sponsibility borne  quietly  and  simply,  of  a  quiet 
courage  that  buries  its  own  griefs  and  asks  only  to 
help. 

From  the  beginning  of  the  war  I  had  felt  a  keen 
interest  in  the  Queen  of  England.  Here  was  a  great 
queen  who  had  chosen  to  be,  first  of  all,  a  wife  and 
mother ;  a  queen  with  courage  and  a  conscience.  And 
into  her  reign  had  come  the  tragedy  of  a  war  that 
affected  every  nation  of  the  world,  many  of  them 
directly,  all  of  them  indirectly.  The  war  had  come 
unsought,  unexpected,  unprepared  for.  Peaceful  Eng- 
land had  become  a  camp.  The  very  palace  in  which 
the  royal  children  were  housed  was  open  to  an  attack 
from  a  brutal  enemy,  which  added  to  the  new  war- 
fare of  this  century  the  ethics  of  barbarism. 

What  did  she  think  of  it  all?  What  did  she  feel 
when  that  terrible  Roll  of  Honour  came  in,  week  by 
week,  that  Roll  of  Honour  with  its  photographs  of 
splendid  types  of  young  manhood  that  no  Anglo- 
Saxon  can  look  at  without  a  clutch  at  his  throat? 
What  did  she  think  when,  one  by  one,  the  friends  of 
her  girlhood  put  on  the  black  of  bereavement  and 
went  uncomplainingly  about  the  good  works  in  which 
hers  was  the  guiding  hand?  What  thoughts  were 
hers  during  those  anxious  days  before  the  Prince  of 
Wales  went  to  the  front,  when,  like  any  other  mother, 
she  took  every  possible  moment  to  be  with  him,  walk- 
ing about  arm-in-arm  with  her  boy,  talking  of  every- 
thing but  the  moment  of  parting? 


302  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

And  when  at  last  I  was  permitted  to  see  the  Queen 
of  England,  I  understood  a  part  at  least  of  what  she 
was  suffering.  I  had  been  to  the  front.  I  had  seen 
the  English  army  in  the  field.  I  had  been  quite  close 
to  the  very  trenches  where  the  boyish  Prince  of  Wales 
was  facing  the  enemies  of  his  country  and  doing  it 
with  high  courage.  And  I  had  heard  the  rumble  of 
the  great  German  guns,  as  Queen  Mary  of  England 
must  hear  them  in  her  sleep. 

Even  with  no  son  in  the  field  the  Queen  of  England 
would  be  working  for  the  soldiers.  It  is  a  part  of  the 
tradition  of  her  house.  But  a  good  mother  is  a  mother 
to  all  the  world.  When  Queen  Mary  is  supervising' 
the  great  work  of  the  Needlework  Guild  one  feels  sure 
that  into  each  word  of  direction  has  gone  a  little  addi- 
tional tenderness,  because  of  this  boy  of  hers  at  the 
front. 

It  is  because  of  Her  Majesty's  interest  in  the  ma- 
terial well-being  of  the  soldiers  at  the  front,  and  be- 
cause of  her  most  genuine  gratitude  for  America's 
part  in  this  well-being,  that  I  took  such  pleasure  in 
meeting  the  Queen  of  England. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Her  Majesty  that  she  put 
an  American  woman — a  very  nervous  American 
woman — at  her  ease  at  once,  that  she  showed  that 
American  woman  the  various  departments  of  her 
Needlework  Guild  under  way,  and  that  she  conveyed, 
in  every  word  she  said,  a  deep  feeling  of  friendship 
for  America  and  her  assistance  to  Belgium  in  this 
crisis. 

Although  our  ambassadors  are  still  accredited  to 
the  Court  of  St.  James's,  the  old  palace  has  ceased  to 
be  the  royal  residence.  The  King  still  holds  there  his 
levees,  to  which  only  gentlemen  are  admitted.  But  the 


QUEEN  MARY  OF  ENGLAND  303 

formal  Drawing  Rooms  are  held  at  Buckingham 
Palace.  To  those  who  have  seen  St.  James's  during  a 
levee,  or  to  those  London  tourists  who  have  watched 
the  Scots  Guards,  or  the  Coldstream  or  the  Grenadiers, 
preceded  by  a  splendid  band,  swinging  into  the  old 
Friary  Court  to  perform  the  impressive  ceremony  of  | 
changing  guard,  the  change  in  these  days  of  war  is 
most  amazing.  Friary  Court  is  guarded  by  London 
policemen,  and  filled  with  great  vans  piled  high  with 
garments  and  supplies  for  the  front — that  front  where 
the  Coldstream  and  the  Grenadiers  and  the  others, 
shorn  of  their  magnificence,  are  waiting  grimly  in 
muddy  trenches  or  leading  charges  to  victory — or  the 
Roll  of  Honour.  Under  the  winter  sky  of  London  the 
crenelated  towers  and  brick  walls  of  the  old  palace 
give  little  indication  of  the  former  grandeur  of  this 
most  historic  of  England's  palaces,  built  on  the 
site  of  an  old  leper  hospital  and  still  retaining  the 
name  of  the  saint  to  whom  that  hospital  was  dedi- 
cated. 

There  had  been  a  shower  just  before  I  arrived; 
and,  although  it  was  February,  there  was  already  a 
hint  of  spring  in  the  air.  The  sun  came  out,  drying 
the  roads  in  the  park  close  by,  and  shining  brightly  on 
the  lovely  English  grass,  green  even  then  with  the 
green  of  June  at  home.  Riders,  caught  in  the  shower 
and  standing  by  the  sheltered  sides  of  trees  for  pro- 
tection, took  again  to  the  bridle  paths.  The  hollows 
of  Friary  Court  were  pools  where  birds  were  splash- 
ing. As  I  got  out  of  my  car  a  Boy  Scout  emerged 
from  the  palace  and  carried  a  large  parcel  to  a  waiting 
van. 

"Do  you  want  the  Q.  M.  N.  G.  ?"  said  a  tall  police- 
man. 


304 


This,  being  interpreted,  I  was  given  to  understand 
was  Queen  Mary's  Needlework  Guild. 

Later  on,  when  I  was  taken  to  Buckingham  Palace 
to  write  my  name  in  the  Queen's  book,  which  is  eti- 
quette after  a  presentation,  there  was  all  the  formality 
the  visit  to  St.  James's  had  lacked — the  drive  into  the 
inclosure,  where  the  guard  was  changing,  the  stately 
footmen,  the  great  book  with  its  pages  containing  the 
dignitaries  and  great  people  of  all  the  earth. 

But  the  Boy  Scout  and  the  policeman  had  restored 
my  failing  courage  that  day  at  St.  James's  Palace. 
Except  for  a  tendency  to  breathe  at  twice  my  normal 
rate  as  the  Queen  entered  the  room  I  felt  almost  calm. 

As  she  advanced  toward  us,  stopping  to  speak  cor- 
dially to  the  various  ladies  who  are  carrying  on  the 
work  of  the  Guild  for  her,  I  had  an  opportunity  to 
see  this  royal  woman  who  has  suffered  so  grossly 
from  the  camera. 

It  will  be  a  surprise  to  many  Americans  to  learn 
that  the  Queen  of  England  is  very  lovely  to  look  at. 
So  much  emphasis  has  always  been  placed  on  her  vir- 
tues, and  so  little  has  been  written  of  her  charm,  that 
this  tribute  is  only  fair  to  Her  Majesty.  She  is  tail, 
perhaps  five  feet  eight  inches,  with  deep-blue  eyes  and 
beautiful  colouring.  She  has  a  rather  wide,  humorous 
mouth.  There  is  not  a  trace  of  austerity  in  her  face 
or  in  any  single  feature.  The  whole  impression  was 
of  sincerity  and  kindliness,  with  more  than  a  trace 
of  humour. 

I  could  quite  believe,  after  I  saw  Her  Majesty,  the 
delightful  story  that  I  had  heard  from  a  member  of 
her  own  circle,  that  now  and  then,  when  during  some 
court  solemnity  an  absurdity  occurred,  it  was  posi- 
tively dangerous  to  catch  the  Queen's  eye! 


QUEEN  MARY  OF  ENGLAND  305 

Queen  Mary  came  up  the  long  room.  As  she 
paused  and  held  out  her  hand,  each  lady  took  it  and 
curtsied  at  the  same  time.  The  Queen  talked,  smiling 
as  she  spoke.  There  was  no  formality.  Near  at  hand 
the  lady-in-waiting  who  was  in  attendance  stood, 
sometimes  listening,  sometimes  joining  in  the  conver- 
sation. The  talk  was  all  of  supplies,  for  these  days  in 
England  one  thinks  in  terms  of  war.  Certain  things 
had  come  in;  other  things  had  gone  or  were  going. 
For  the  Queen  of  England  is  to-day  at  the  head  of  a 
great  business,  one  that  in  a  few  months  has  already 
collected  and  distributed  over  a  million  garments,  all 
new,  all  practical,  all  of  excellent  quality. 

The  Queen  came  toward  me  and  paused.  There 
was  an  agonised  moment  while  the  lady-in-waiting 
presented  me.  Her  Majesty  held  out  her  hand.  I  took 
it  and  bowed.  The  next  instant  she  was  speaking. 

She  spoke  at  once  of  America,  of  what  had  already 
been  done  by  Americans  for  the  Belgians  both  in  Eng- 
land and  in  their  desolated  country.  And  she  hastened 
to  add  her  gratitude  for  the  support  they  have  given 
her  Guild. 

"The  response  has  been  more  than  generous,"  said 
Her  Majesty.  "We  are  very  grateful.  We  are  glad 
to  find  that  the  sympathy  of  America  is  with  us." 

She  expressed  a  desire  also  to  have  America  know 
fully  just  what  was  being  done  with  the  supplies  that* 
are  being  constantly  sent  over,  both  from  Canada  and 
from  the  United  States. 

"Canada  has  been  wonderful,"  she  said.  "They  are 
doing  everything." 

The  ready  response  of  Canada  to  the  demand  for 
both  troops  and  supplies  appeared  to  have  touched  Her 
Majesty.  She  spoke  at  length  about  the  troops,  the 


306  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

distance  they  had  come,  the  fine  appearance  the  men 
made,  and  their  popularity  with  the  crowds  when  they 
paraded  on  the  streets  of  London.  I  had  already 
noticed  this.  A  Canadian  regiment  was  sure  to  elicit 
cheers  at  any  time,  although  London,  generally  speak- 
ing, has  ceased  any  but  silent  demonstration  over  the 
soldiers. 

"Have  you  seen  any  of  the  English  hospitals  on  the 
Continent?"  the  Queen  asked. 

"I  have  seen  a  number,  Your  Majesty." 

"Do  they  seem  well  supplied?" 

I  replied  that  they  appeared  to  be  thoroughly 
equipped,  but  that  the  amount  of  supplies  required  was 
terrifying  and  that  at  one  time  some  of  the  hospitals 
had  experienced  difficulty  in  securing  what  they  needed. 

"One  hospital  in  Calais,"  I  said,  "received  twelve 
thousand  pairs  of  bed  socks  in  one  week  last  autumn, 
and  could  not  get  a  bandage." 

"Those  things  happened  early  in  the  war.  We  are 
doing  much  better  now.  England  had  not  expected 
war.  We  were  totally  unprepared." 

And  in  the  great  analysis  that  is  to  come,  that  speech 
of  the  Queen  of  England  is  the  answer  to  many  ques- 
tions. England  had  not  expected  war.  Every  roll 
of  the  drum  as  the  men  of  the  new  army  march  along 
the  streets,  every  readjustment  necessary  to  a  peaceful 
people  suddenly  thrust  into  war,  every  month  added 
to  the  length  of  time  it  has  taken  to  put  England  in 
force  into  the  field,  shifts  the  responsibility  to  where 
it  belongs.  Back  of  all  fine  questions  of  diplomatic 
negotiation  stands  this  one  undeniable  fact.  To  deny 
it  is  absurd ;  to  accept  it  is  final. 

"What  is  your  impression  of  the  French  and  Belgian 
hospitals?"  Her  Majesty  inquired. 


QUEEN  MARY  OF  ENGLAND  307 

I  replied  that  none  were  so  good  as  the  English, 
that  France  had  always  depended  on  her  nuns  in  such 
emergencies,  and,  there  being  no  nuns  in  France  now, 
her  hospital  situation  was  still  not  good. 

"The  priests  of  Belgium  are  doing  wonderful  work," 
I  said.  "They  have  suffered  terribly  during  the  war." 

"It  is  very  terrible,"  said  Her  Majesty.  "Both 
priests  and  nuns  have  suffered,  as  England  has  reason 
to  know." 

The  Queen  spoke  of  the  ladies  connected  with  the 
Guild. 

"They  are  really  much  overworked,"  she  said. 
"They  are  giving  all  their  time  day  after  day.  They 
are  splendid.  And  many  of  them,  of  course,  are  in; 
great  anxiety." 

Already,  by  her  tact  and  her  simplicity  of  manner, 
she  had  put  me  at  my  ease.  The  greatest  people,  I 
have  found,  have  this  quality  of  simplicity.  When  she 
spoke  of  the  anxieties  of  her  ladies,  I  wished  that  I 
could  have  conveyed  to  her,  from  so  many  Americans, 
their  sympathy  in  her  own  anxieties,  so  keen  at  that 
time,  so  unselfishly  borne.  But  the  lady-in-waiting 
was  speaking: 

"Please  tell  the  Queen  about  your  meeting  with 
King  Albert." 

So  I  told  about  it.  It  had  been  unconventional,  and 
the  recital  amused  Her  Majesty.  It  was  then  that  I 
realised  how  humorous  her  mouth  was,  how  very 
blue  and  alert  her  eyes.  I  told  it  all  to  her,  the  things 
that  insisted  on  slipping  off  my  lap,  and  the  King's 
picking  them  up ;  the  old  envelope  he  gave  me  on  which 
to  make  notes  of  the  interview;  how  I  had  asked  him 
whether  he  would  let  me  know  when  the  interview 
was  over,  or  whether  I  ought  to  get  up  and  go!  And 


3o8  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

finally,  when  we  were  standing  talking  before  my 
departure,  how  I  had  suddenly  remembered  that  I 
was  not  to  stand  nearer  to  His  Majesty  than  six  feet, 
and  had  hastily  backed  away  and  explained,  to  his 
great  amusement. 

Queen  Mary  laughed.    Then  her  face  clouded. 

"It  is  all  so  very  tragic,"  she  said.  "Have  you  seen 
the  Queen?" 

I  replied  that  the  Queen  of  the  Belgians  had  received 
me  a  few  days  after  my  conversation  with  the  King. 

"She  is  very  sad,"  said  Her  Majesty.  "It  is  a  ter- 
rible thing  for  her,  especially  as  she  is  a  Bavarian  by 
birth." 

From  that  to  the  ever-imminent  subject  of  the  war 
itself  was  but  a  step.  An  English  officer  had  recently 
made  a  sensational  escape  from  a  German  prison  camp, 
and  having  at  last  got  back  to  England,  had  been  sent 
for  by  the  King.  With  the  strange  inconsistencies 
that  seem  to  characterise  the  behaviour  of  the  Ger- 
mans, the  man  to  whom  he  had  surrendered  after  a 
gallant  defence  had  treated  him  rather  well.  But 
from  that  time  on  his  story  was  one  of  brutalities  and 
starvation. 

The  officer  in  question  had  told  me  his  story,  and  I 
ventured  to  refer  to  it.  Her  Majesty  knew  it  quite 
well,  and  there  was  no  mistaking  the  grief  in  her 
voice  as  she  commented  on  it,  especially  on  that  part 
of  it  which  showed  discrimination  against  the  British 

prisoners.  Major  V had  especially  emphasised 

the  lack  of  food  for  the  private  soldiers  and  the  fear- 
ful trials  of  being  taken  back  along  the  lines  of  com- 
munication, some  fifty-two  men  being  locked  in  one  of 
the  small  Continental  box  cars  which  are  built  to  carry 
only  six  horses.  Many  of  them  were  wounded.  They 


QUEEN  MARY  OF  ENGLAND  309 

were  obliged  to  stand,  the  floor  of  the  car  being  inches 
deep  with  filth.  For  thirty  hours  they  had  no  water 
and  no  air,  and  for  three  days  and  three  nights  no 
food. 

"I  am  to  publish  Major  V *s  statement  in  Amer- 
ica, Your  Majesty,"  I  said. 

"I  think  America  should  know  it,"  said  the  Queen. 
"It  is  most  unjust.  German  prisoners  in  England  are 
well  cared  for.  They  are  well  fed,  and  games  and 
other  amusements  are  provided  for  them.  They  even 
play  football!" 

I  stepped  back  as  Her  Majesty  prepared  to  continue 
her  visit  round  the  long  room.  But  she  indicated  that 
I  was  to  accompany  her.  It  was  then  that  one  realised 
that  the  Queen  of  England  is  the  intensely  practical 
daughter  of  a  practical  mother.  Nothing  that  is  done 
in  this  Guild,  the  successor  of  a  similar  guild  founded 
by  the  late  Duchess  of  Teck,  Her  Majesty's  mother, 
escapes  her  notice.  No  detail  is  too  small  if  it  makes 
for  efficiency.  She  selected  at  random  garments  from 
the  tables,  and  examined  them  for  warmth,  for  qual- 
ity, for  utility. 

Generally  she  approved.  Before  a  great  heap  of 
heavy  socks  she  paused. 

"The  soldiers  like  the  knitted  ones,  we  are  told," 
she  said.  "These  are  not  all  knitted  but  they  are  very 
warm." 

A  baby  sweater  of  a  hideous  yellow  roused  in  her 
something  like  wrath. 

"All  that  labour!"  she  said,  "and  such  a  colour  for  a 
little  baby !"  And  again,  when  she  happened  on  a  pair 
of  felt  slippers,  quite  the  largest  slippers  I  have  ever 
seen,  she  fell  silent  in  sheer  amazement.  They  amused 
her  even  while  they  shocked  her.  And  again,  as  she 


310  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

smiled,  I  regretted  that  the  photographs  of  the  Queen 
of  England  may  not  show  her  smiling. 

A  small  canvas  case,  skilfully  rolled  and  fastened, 
caught  Her  Majesty's  attention.  She  opened  it  her- 
self and  revealed  with  evident  pride  its  numerous  con- 
tents. Many  thousands  of  such  cases  had  already 
been  sent  to  the  army. 

This  one  was  a  model  of  packing.  It  contained  in 
its  small  compass  an  extraordinary  number  of  things 
1 — changes  of  under  flannels,  extra  socks,  an  abdominal 
belt,  and,  in  an  inclosure,  towel,  soap,  toothbrush, 
nailbrush  and  tooth  powder.  I  am  not  certain,  but  I 
believe  there  was  also  a  pack  of  cards. 

"I  am  afraid  I  should  never  be  able  to  get  it  all  back 
again !"  said  Her  Majesty.  So  one  of  the  ladies  took 
it  in  charge,  and  the  Queen  went  on. 

My  audience  was  over.  As  Her  Majesty  passed  me 
she  held  out  her  hand.  I  took  it  and  curtsied. 

"Were  you  not  frightened  the  night  you  were  in 
the  Belgian  trenches?"  she  inquired. 

"Not  half  so  frightened  as  I  was  this  afternoon, 
Your  Majesty,"  I  replied. 

She  passed  on,  smiling. 

And  now,  when  enough  time  has  elapsed  to  give 
perspective  to  my  first  impression  of  Queen  Mary  of 
England,  I  find  that  it  loses  nothing  by  this  supreme' 
test.  I  find  that  I  remember  her,  not  as  a  great  Queen 
but  as  a  gracious  and  kindly  woman,  greatly  beloved 
by  those  of  her  immediate  circle,  totally  without  arro- 
gance, and  of  a  simplicity  of  speech  and  manner  that 
must  put  to  shame  at  times  those  lesser  lights  that 
group  themselves  about  a  throne. 

I  find  another  impression  also — that  the  Queen  of 


QUEEN  MARY  OF  ENGLAND  311 

England  is  intensely  and  alertly  mental — alive  to  her 
finger  tips,  we  should  say  in  America.  She  has  always 
been  active.  Her  days  are  crowded.  A  different  type 
of  royal  woman  would  be  content  to  be  the  honoured 
head  of  the  Queen's  Guild.  But  she  is  in  close  touch 
with  it  at  all  times.  It  is  she  who  dictates  its  policy, 
and  so  competently  that  the  ladies  who  are  associated 
with  the  work  that  is  being  done  speak  of  her  with 
admiration  not  unmixed  with  awe. 

From  a  close  and  devoted  friend  of  Queen  Mary  I 
obtained  other  characteristics  to  add  to  my  picture: 
That  the  Queen  is  acutely  sensitive  to  pain  or  distress 
in  others — it  hurts  her ;  that  she  is  punctual — and  this 
not  because  of  any  particular  sense  of  time  but  because 
she  does  not  like  to  keep  other  people  waiting.  It  is 
all  a  part  of  an  overwhelming  sense  of  that  responsi- 
bility to  others  that  has  its  origin  in  true  kindliness. 

The  work  of  the  Queen's  Guild  is  surprising  in  its 
scope.  In  a  way  it  is  a  vast  clearing  house.  Supplies 
come  in  from  every  part  of  the  world,  from  India, 
Ceylon,  Java,  Alaska,  South  America,  from  the  most 
remote  places.  I  saw  the  record  book.  I  saw  that  a 
woman  from  my  home  city  had  sent  cigarettes  to  the 
soldiers  through  the  Guild,  that  Africa  had  sent  flan- 
nels! Coming  from  a  land  where  the  sending,  as 
regards  Africa,  is  all  the  other  way,  I  found  this 
exciting.  Indeed,  the  whole  record  seems  to  show 
how  very  small  the  earth  is,  and  how  the  tragedy  of  a 
great  war  has  overcome  the  barriers  of  distance  and 
time  and  language. 

From  this  clearing  house  in  England's  historic  old 
palace,  built  so  long  ago  by  Bluff  King  Hal,  these 
offerings  of  the  world  are  sent  wherever  there  is  need, 
to  Servia,  to  Egypt,  to  South  and  East  Africa,  to  the 


312  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

Belgians.  The  work  was  instituted  by  the  Queen  the 
moment  war  broke  out,  and  three  things  are  being  very 
carefully  insured:  That  a  real  want  exists,  that  the 
clothing  reaches  its  proper  destination,  and  that  there 
shall  be  no  overlapping. 

The  result  has  been  most  gratifying  to  the  Queen/; 
but  it  was  difficult  to  get  so  huge  a  business — for,  as 
I  have  already  said,  it  is  a  business  now — under  way 
at  the  beginning.  Demand  was  insistent.  There  was 
no  time  to  organise  a  system  in  advance.  It  had  to  be 
worked  out  in  actual  practice. 

One  of  the  Queen's  ladies-in-waiting  wrote  in  Feb- 
ruary, apropos  of  the  human  element  in  the  work : 

"There  was  a  great  deal  of  human  element  in  the 
start  with  its  various  mistakes.  The  Queen  wished,  on 
the  breaking  out  of  war,  to  start  the  Guild  in  such  a 
way  as  to  prevent  the  waste  and  overlapping  which 
occurred  in  the  Boer  War.  .  .  .  The  fact  that  the 
ladies  connected  with  the  work  have  toiled  daily  and 
unceasingly  for  seven  months  is  the  most  wonderful 
part  of  it  all." 

Before  Christmas  nine  hundred  and  seventy  thous- 
and belts  and  socks  were  collected  and  sent  as  a  spe- 
cial gift  to  the  soldiers  at  the  front,  from  the  Queen 
and  the  women  of  the  empire.  That  in  itself  is  an 
amazing  record  of  efficiency. 

It  is  rather  comforting  to  know  that  there  were' 
mistakes  in  the  beginning.  It  is  so  human.  It  is  com- 
forting to  think  of  this  exceedingly  human  Queen 
being  a  party  to  them,  and  being  divided  between 
annoyance  and  mirth  as  they  developed.  It  is  very 
comforting  also  to  think  that,  in  the  end,  they  were 
rectified. 

We  had  a  similar  situation  during  our  Civil  War. 


QUEEN  MARY  OF  ENGLAND  313 

There  were  mistakes  then  also,  and  they  too  were 
rectified.  What  the  heroic  women  of  the  North  and 
South  did  during  that  great  conflict  the  women  of 
Great  Britain  are  doing  to-day.  They  are  showing 
the  same  high  and  courageous  spirit,  the  same  subor- 
dination of  their  personal  griefs  to  the  national  cause, 
the  same  cheerful  relinquishment  of  luxuries.  It  is 
a  United  Britain  that  confronts  the  enemy  in  France. 
It  is  a  united  womanhood,  united  in  spirit,  in  labour,  in 
faith  and  high  moral  courage,  that  looks  east  across 
the  Channel  to  that  land  beyond  the  horizon,  "some- 
where in  France,"  where  the  Empire  is  fighting  for 
life. 

A  united  womanhood,  and  at  its  head  a  steadfast 
and  courageous  Queen  and  mother,  Mary  of  England. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 
THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  BELGIANS 


the  third  of  August,  1914,  the  German  Army 
crossed  the  frontier  into  Belgium.  And  on  the 
following  day,  the  fourth,  King  Albert  made  his  now 
famous  speech  to  the  joint  meeting  of  the  Belgian 
Chamber  and  Senate.  Come  what  might,  the  Belgian 
people  would  maintain  the  freedom  that  was  their 
birthright. 

"I  have  faith  in  our  destinies,"  King  Albert  con- 
cluded. "A  country  which  defends  itself  wins  re- 
spect and  cannot  perish." 

With  these  simple  and  dignified  words  Belgium  took 
up  the  struggle.  She  was  beaten  before  she  began, 
and  she  knew  it.  No  matter  what  the  ultimate  out- 
come of  the  war,  she  must  lose.  The  havoc  would  be 
hers.  The  old  battleground  of  Europe  knew  what 
war  meant;  no  country  in  the  world  knew  better. 
And,  knowing,  Belgium  took  up  the  burden. 

To-day,  Belgium  is  prostrate.  That  she  lives,  that 
she  will  rise  again,  no  Belgian  doubts.  It  may  be  after 
months — even  after  years;  but  never  for  a  moment 
can  there  be  any  doubt  of  the  national  integrity.  The 
Germans  are  in  Belgium,  but  not  of  it.  Belgium  is 
still  Belgium — not  a  part  of  the  German  Empire. 
Until  the  Germans  are  driven  out  she  is  waiting. 

As  I  write  this,  one  corner  of  her  territory  remains 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  BELGIANS 

to  her,  a  wedge-shaped  piece,  ten  miles  or  so  in  width 
at  the  coast,  narrowing  to  nothing  at  a  point  less  than 
thirty  miles  inland.  And  in  that  tragic  fragment  there 
remains  hardly  an  undestroyed  town.  Her  revenues 
are  gone,  being  collected  as  an  indemnity,  for  God 
)  knows  what,  by  the  Germans.  King  Albert  himself 
has  been  injured.  The  Queen  of  the  Belgians  has 
pawned  her  jewels.  The  royal  children  are  refugees 
in  England.  Two-thirds  of  the  army  is  gone.  And, 
of  even  that  tiny  remaining  corner,  much  is  covered 
by  the  salt  floods  of  the  sea. 

The  King  of  the  Belgians  is  often  heard  of.  We 
hear  of  him  at  the  head  of  his  army,  consulting  his 
staff,  reviewing  his  weary  and  decimated  troops.  We 
know  his  calibre  now,  both  as  man  and  soldier.  He 
stands  out  as  one  of  the  truly  heroic  figures  of  the  war. 

But  what  of  the  Bavarian-born  Queen  of  the  Bel- 
gians? What  of  this  royal  woman  who  has  lost  the 
land  of  her  nativity  through  the  same  war  that  has 
cost  her  the  country  of  her  adoption;  who  must  see 
her  husband  go  each  day  to  the  battle  line ;  who  must 
herself  live  under  the  shadow  of  hostile  aeroplanes, 
within  earshot  of  the  enemy's  guns?  What  was  she 
thinking  of  during  those  fateful  hours  when,  all  night 
long,  King  Albert  and  his  Ministers  debated  the  course 
of  Belgium — a  shameful  immunity,  or  a  war?  What 
does  she  think  now,  when,  before  the  windows  of  her 
villa  at  La  Panne,  the  ragged  and  weary  remnant  of 
the  brave  Belgian  Army  lines  up  for  review?  What 
does  she  hope  for  and  pray  for — this  Queen  without  a 
country  ? 

What  she  thinks  we  cannot  know.  What  she  hopes 
for  we  may  guess — the  end  of  war;  the  return  of  her 
faithful  people  to  their  homes;  the  reunion  of  families; 


316  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

that  the  guns  will  cease  firing,  so  the  long  lines  of 
ambulances  will  no  longer  fill  the  roads;  that  the 
wounded  will  recover;  and  that  those  that  grieve  may 
be  comforted. 

She  has  pawned  her  jewels.  When  I  saw  her  she 
wore  a  thin  gold  chain  round  her  neck,  and  on  it  a 
tiny  gold  heart.  I  believe  she  has  sacrificed  everything 
else.  Royal  jewels  have  been  pawned  before  this — 
to  support  extravagant  mistresses  or  to  bolster  a 
crumbling  throne;  but  Elisabeth  of  Belgium  has 
pawned  her  jewels  to  buy  supplies  for  wounded  sol- 
diers. Battle-scarred  old  Belgium  has  not  always  had 
a  clean  slate ;  but  certainly  this  act  of  a  generous  and 
devoted  queen  should  mark  off  many  scores. 

The  Queen  is  living  at  La  Panne,  a  tiny  fishing  vil- 
lage and  resort  on  the  coast — an  ugly  village,  robbed 
of  quaintness  by  its  rows  of  villas  owned  by  summer 
visitors.  The  villas  are  red  and  yellow  brick,  built 
chateau  fashion  and  set  at  random  on  the  sand.  Ef- 
forts at  lawns  have  proved  abortive.  The  encroaching 
dunes  gradually  cover  the  grass.  Here  and  there  are 
streets;  and  there  is  one  main  thoroughfare,  along 
which  is  a  tramway  that  formerly  connected  the  town 
with  other  villages. 

On  one  side  the  sea;  on  the  other  the  dunes,  with 
little  shade  and  no  beauty — such  is  the  location  of  the 
new  capital  of  Belgium.  And  here,  in  one  of  the  six 
small  villas  that  house  the  court,  the  King  and  Queen 
of  Belgium,  with  the  Crown  Prince,  are  living.  They 
live  very  quietly,  walking  together  along  the  sands  at 
those  times  when  King  Albert  is  not  with  his  troops, 
faring  simply,  waiting  always — as  all  Belgium  is  wait- 
ing to-day.  Waiting  for  the  end  of  this  terrible 
time. 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  BELGIANS          317 

I  asked  a  member  of  the  royal  household  what  they 
did  during  those  long  winter  evenings,  when  the  only 
sounds  in  the  little  village  were  the  wash  of  the  sea 
and  the  continual  rumble  of  the  artillery  at  Nieuport. 

"What  can  we  do?"  he  replied.  "My  wife  and  chil- 
dren are  in  Brussels.  It  is  not  possible  to  read,  and  it 
is  not  wise  to  think  too  much.  We  wait." 

But  waiting  does  not  imply  inaction.  The  members 
of  His  Majesty's  household  are  all  officers  in  the  army. 
I  saw  only  one  gentleman  in  civilian  dress,  and  he  was 
the  King's  secretary,  M.  Ingenbleek.  The  King  heads 
this  activity,  and  the  Queen  of  the  Belgians  is  never 
idle.  The  Ocean  Ambulance,  the  great  Belgian  base 
hospital,  is  under  her  active  supervision,  and  its  loca- 
tion near  the  royal  villa  makes  it  possible  for  her  to 
visit  it  daily.  She  knows  the  wounded  soldiers,  who 
adore  her.  Indeed,  she  is  frankly  beloved  by  the  army. 
Her  appearance  is  always  the  signal  for  a  demonstra- 
tion ;  and  again  and  again  I  saw  copies  of  her  photo- 
graph nailed  up  in  sentry  huts,  in  soldiers'  billets,  in 
battered  buildings  that  were  temporary  headquarters 
for  divisions  of  the  army. 

In  return  for  this  devotion  the  young  Queen  regards 
the  welfare  of  the  troops  as  her  especial  charge.  She 
visits  them  when  they  are  wounded,  and  many  tales 
are  told  of  her  keen  memory  for  their  troubles.  One, 
a  wounded  Frenchman,  had  lost  his  pipe  when  he  was 
injured.  As  he  recovered  he  mourned  his  pipe.  Other 
pipes  were  offered,  but  they  were  not  the  same.  There 
had  been  something  about  the  curve  of  the  stem  of  the 
old  one,  or  the  shape  of  the  bowl — whatever  it  was, 
he  missed  it.  And  it  had  been  his  sole  possession. 

At  last  the  Queen  of  the  Belgians  had  him  describe 
the  old  pipe  exactly.  I  believe  he  made  a  drawing — 


318  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

and  she  secured  a  duplicate  of  it  for  him.  He  told 
me  the  story  himself. 

The  Queen  had  wished  to  go  to  the  trenches  to  see 
the  wretchedness  of  conditions  at  the  front,  and  to 
discover  what  she  could  do  to  ameliorate  them.  One 
excursion  she  had  been  permitted  at  the  time  I  saw 
her,  to  the  great  anxiety  of  those  who  knew  of  the 
trip.  She  was  quite  fearless,  and  went  into  one  of  the 
trenches  at  the  railroad  embankment  of  Pervyse.  I 
saw  that  trench  afterward.  It  was  proudly  decorated 
with  a  sign  that  said:  Repose  de  la  Reine.  And 
above  the  board  was  the  plaster  head  of  a  saint,  from 
one  of  the  churches.  Both  sign  and  head,  needless  to 
say,  were  carefully  protected  from  German  bullets. 

Everywhere  I  went  I  found  evidences  of  devotion 
to  this  girlish  and  tender-hearted  Queen.  I  was  told 
of  her  farewell  to  the  leading  officials  of  the  army  and 
of  the  court,  when,  having  remained  to  the  last  possible 
moment,  King  Albert  insisted  on  her  departure  front 
Brussels.  I  was  told  of  her  incognito  excursions 
across  the  dangerous  Channel  to  see  her  children  in 
England.  I  was  told  of  her  single-hearted  devotion  to 
the  King ;  her  belief  in  him ;  her  confidence  that  he  can! 
do  no  wrong. 

So,  when  a  great  and  bearded  individual,  much  given 
to  bowing,  presented  himself  at  the  door  of  my  room! 
in  the  hotel  at  Dunkirk,  and  extended  to  me  a  notifica- 
tion that  the  Queen  of  the  Belgians  would  receive  me 
the  next  day  at  the  royal  villa  at  La  Panne,  I  was 
keenly  expectant. 

I  went  over  my  wardrobe.  It  was  exceedingly  lim- 
ited and  more  than  a  little  worn.  Furs  would  cover 
some  of  the  deficiencies,  but  there  was  a  difficulty  about 
shoe  buttons.  Dunkirk  apparently  laces  its  shoes., 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  BELGIANS          319 

[After  a  period  of  desperation,  two  top  buttons  were 
removed  and  sewed  on  lower  down,  where  they  would 
do  the  most  good.  That  and  much  brushing  was  all 
that  was  possible,  my  total  war  equipment  comprising 
one  small  suitcase,  two  large  notebooks  and  a  fountain 
pen. 

I  had  been  invited  to  lunch  at  a  town  on  my  way 
to  La  Panne,  but  the  luncheon  was  deferred.  When  I 
passed  through  my  would-be  entertainer  was  eating 
bully  beef  out  of  a  tin,  with  a  cracker  or  two;  and 
shells  were  falling  inhospitably.  Suddenly  I  was  not 
hungry.  I  did  not  care  for  food.  I  did  not  care  to 
stop  to  talk  about  food.  It  was  a  very  small  town,  and 
there  were  bricks  and  glass  and  plaster  in  the  streets. 
There  were  almost  no  people,  and  those  who  were 
there  were  hastily  preparing  for  flight. 

It  was  a  wonderful  Sunday  afternoon,  brilliantly 
sunny.  A  German  aeroplane  hung  overhead  and  called 
the  bull's-eyes.  From  the  plain  near  they  were  firing 
at  it,  but  the  shells  burst  below.  One  could  see  how 
far  they  fell  short  by  the  clouds  of  smoke  that  hung 
suspended  beneath  it,  floating  like  shadowy  balloons. 

I  felt  that  the  aeroplane  had  its  eyes  on  my  car. 
(They  drop  darts — do  the  aeroplanes — two  hundred  and 
more  at  a  time ;  small  pencil-shaped  arrows  of  steel,  six: 
inches  long,  extremely  sharp  and  weighted  at  the  point 
end.  I  did  not  want  to  die  by  a  dart.  I  did  not  want 
to  die  by  a  shell.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  did  not  want 
to  die  at  all. 

So  the  car  went  on;  and,  luncheonless,  I  met  the 
Queen  of  the  Belgians. 

The  royal  villa  at  La  Panne  faces  the  sea.  It  is  at 
the  end  of  the  village  and  the  encroaching  dunes  have 
ruined  what  was  meant  to  be  a  small  lawn.  The  long 


320  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

grass  that  grows  out  of  the  sand  is  the  only  vegetation 
about  it;  and  outside,  half -buried  in  the  dune,  is  a; 
marble  seat.  A  sentry  box  or  two,  and  sentries  with1 
carbines  pacing  along  the  sand;  the  constant  swish 
of  the  sea  wind  through  the  dead  winter  grass;  thei 
half -buried  garden  seat — that  is  what  the  Queen  of  the: 
Belgians  sees  as  she  looks  from  the  window  of  her 
villa. 

The  villa  itself  is  small  and  ugly.  The  furnishing 
is  the  furnishing  of  a  summer  seaside  cottage.  The 
windows  fit  badly  and  rattle  in  the  gale.  In  the  long 
drawing  room — really  a  living  room — in  which  I 
waited  for  the  Queen,  a  heavy  red  curtain  had  been 
hung  across  the  lower  part  of  the  long  French  windows 
that  face  the  sea,  to  keep  out  the  draft.  With  that  and 
an  open  coal  fire  the  room  was  fairly  comfortable. 

As  I  waited  I  looked  about.  Rather  a  long  room 
this,  which  has  seen  so  many  momentous  discussions, 
so  much  tragedy  and  real  grief.  A  chaotic  room  too ; 
for,  in  addition  to  its  typical  villa  furnishing  of  chintz- 
covered  chairs  and  a  sofa  or  two,  an  ordinary  pine 
table  by  a  side  window  was  littered  with  papers. 

On  a  centre  table  were  books — H.  G.  Wells'  "The 
War  in  the  Air" ;  two  American  books  writen  by  corre- 
spondents who  had  witnessed  the  invasion  of  Belgium ; 
and  several  newspapers.  A  hideous  marble  bust  on  a  | 
pedestal  occupied  a  corner,  and  along  a  wall  was  a 
very  small  cottage  piano.  On  the  white  marble  mantel 
were  a  clock  and  two  candlesticks.  Except  for  a  great 
basket  of  heather  on  a  stand — a  gift  to  Her  Majesty — ' 
the  room  was  evidently  just  as  its  previous  owners  had 
left  it.  A  screen  just  inside  the  door,  a  rather  worn 
rug  on  the  floor,  and  a  small  brocade  settee  by  the 
fireplace  completed  the  furnishing. 


321 


The  door  opened  and  the  Queen  entered  without 
ceremony.  I  had  not  seen  her  before.  In  her  simple 
blue  dress,  with  its  white  lawn  collar  and  cuffs,  she 
looked  even  more  girlish  than  I  had  anticipated.  Like 
Queen  Mary  of  England,  she  had  suffered  from  the 
camera.  She  is  indeed  strikingly  beautiful,  with  lovely 
colouring  and  hair,  and  with  very  direct  wide  eyes, 
set  far  apart.  She  is  small  and  slender,  and  moves 
quickly.  She  speaks  beautiful  English,  in  that  softly 
inflected  voice  of  the  Continent  which  is  the  envy  of 
all  American  women. 

I  bowed  as  she  entered;  and  she  shook  hands  with 
me  at  once  and  asked  me  to  sit  down.  She  sat  on  the 
sofa  by  the  fireplace.  Like  the  Queen  of  England,  like 
King  Albert,  her  first  words  were  of  gratitude  to 
America. 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  record  here  anything  but 
the  substance  of  my  conversation  with  Queen  Elisabeth 
of  Belgium.  Much  that  was  said  was  the  free  and 
unrestricted  speech  of  two  women,  talking  over  to- 
gether a  situation  which  was  tragic  to  them  both ;  for 
Queen  Elisabeth  allowed  me  to  forget,  as  I  think  she 
had  ceased  to  remember,  her  own  exalted  rank,  in  her 
anxiety  for  her  people. 

A  devoted  churchwoman,  she  grieved  over  the 
treatment  accorded  by  the  invading  German  Army  to 
the  priests  and  nuns  of  Belgium.  She  referred  to  her 
own  Bavarian  birth,  and  to  the  confidence  both  King 
Albert  and  she  had  always  felt  in  the  friendliness  of 
Germany. 

"I  am  a  Bavarian,"  she  said.  "I  have  always,  from 
my  childhood,  heard  this  talk  that  Germany  must  grow, 
must  get  to  the  sea.  I  thought  it  was  just  talk — a 
pleasantry!" 


322  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

She  had  seen  many  of  the  diaries  of  German  sol- 
diers, had  read  them  in  the  very  room  where  we  were 
sitting.  She  went  quite  white  over  the  recollection  and 
closed  her  eyes. 

"It  is  the  women  and  children!"  she  said.  "It  is 
terrible!  There  must  be  killing.  That  is  war.  But 
not  this  other  thing." 

And  later  on  she  said,  in  reference  to  German  criti- 
cism of  King  Albert's  course  during  the  early  days  of 
the  war: 

"Any  one  who  knows  the  King  knows  that  he  can- 
not do  a  wrong  thing.  It  is  impossible  for  him.  He 
cannot  go  any  way  but  straight." 

And  Queen  Elisabeth  was  right.  Any  one  who 
knows  King  Albert  of  Belgium  knows  that  "he  cannot 
go  any  way  but  straight." 

The  conversation  shifted  to  the  wounded  soldiers 
and  to  the  Queen's  anxiety  for  them.  I  spoke  of  her 
hospital  as  being  a  remarkable  one — practically  under 
fire,  but  moving  as  smoothly  as  a  great  American  in- 
stitution, thousands  of  miles  from  danger.  She  had 
looked  very  sad,  but  at  the  mention  of  the  Ocean 
Ambulance  her  face  brightened.  She  spoke  of  its 
equipment;  of  the  difficulty  in  securing  supplies;  of  the 
new  surgery,  which  has  saved  so  many  limbs  from 
amputation.  They  were  installing  new  and  larger 
sterilisers,  she  said. 

"Things  are  in  as  good  condition  as  can  be  expected 
now,"  she  said.  "The  next  problem  will  come  when 
we  get  back  into  our  own  country.  What  are  the 
people  to  do?  So  many  of  the  towns  are  gone;  so 
many  farms  are  razed!" 

The  Queen  spoke  of  Brand  Whitlock  and  praised 
highly  his  work  in  Brussels.  From  that  to  the  relief 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  BELGIANS          323 

work  was  only  a  step.  I  spoke  of  the  interest  America 
was  taking  in  the  relief  work,  and  of  the  desire  of  so 
many  American  women  to  help. 

"We  are  grateful  for  anything,"  she  said.  "The 
army  seems  to  be  as  comfortable  as  is  possible  under 
the  circumstances;  but  the  people,  of  course,  need 
everything." 

Inevitably  the  conversation  turned  again  to  the  treat- 
ment of  the  Belgian  people  by  the  Germans;  to  the 
unnecessary  and  brutal  murders  of  noncombatants ;  to 
the  frightful  rapine  and  pillage  of  the  early  months  of 
the  war.  Her  Majesty  could  not  understand  the  scep- 
ticism of  America  on  this  point.  I  suggested  that  it 
was  difficult  to  say  what  any  army  would  do  when  it 
found  itself  in  a  prostrate  and  conquered  land. 

"The  Belgian  Army  would  never  have  behaved  so/* 
said  Her  Majesty.  "Nor  the  English ;  nor  the  French. 
Never!" 

And  the  Queen  of  the  Belgians  is  a  German !  True, 
she  has  suffered  much.  Perhaps  she  is  embittered ;  but 
there  was  no  bitterness  in  her  voice  that  afternoon  in 
the  little  villa  at  La  Panne — only  sadness  and  great 
sorrow  and,  with  it,  deep  conviction.  What  Queen 
Elisabeth  of  Belgium  says,  she  believes;  and  who 
should  know  better?  There,  to  that  house  on  the  sea 
front,  in  the  fragment  of  Belgium  that  remains,  go  all 
the  hideous  details  that  are  war.  She  knows  them  all. 
King  Albert  is  not  a  figure-head ;  he  is  the  actual  fight- 
ing head  of  his  army.  The  murder  of  Belgium  has 
been  done  before  his  very  eyes. 

In  those  long  evenings  when  he  has  returned  from 
headquarters ;  when  he  and  Queen  Elisabeth  sit  by  the 
fire  in  the  room  that  overlooks  the  sea;  when  every 
blast  that  shakes  the  windows  reminds  them  both  of 


324  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

that  little  army,  two-thirds  gone,  shivering  in  the 
trenches  only  a  mile  or  two  away,  or  of  their  people 
beyond  the  dead  line,  suffering  both  deprivation  and 
terror — what  pictures  do  they  see  in  the  glowing  coals  ? 

It  is  not  hard  to  know.  Queen  Elisabeth  sees  her 
children,  and  the  puzzled,  boyish  faces  of  those  who 
are  going  down  to  the  darkness  of  death  that  another 
nation  may  find  a  place  in  the  sun. 

What  King  Albert  sees  may  not  all  be  written ;  but 
this  is  certain:  Both  these  royal  exiles — this  Soldier- 
King  who  has  won  and  deserved  the  admiration  of  the 
world;  this  Queen  who  refuses  to  leave  her  husband 
and  her  wounded,  though  day  after  day  hostile  aero- 
planes are  overhead  and  the  roar  of  German  guns  is 
in  her  ears — these  royal  exiles  live  in  hope  and  in  deep 
conviction.  They  will  return  to  Belgium.  Their  coun- 
try will  be  theirs  again.  Their  houses  will  be  restored ; 
their  fields  will  be  sown  and  yield  harvest — not  for 
Germany,  but  for  Belgium.  Belgium,  as  Belgium, 
will  live  again! 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 
THE  RED  BADGE  OF  MERCY 


T  MMEDIATELY  on  the  declaration  of  war  by  the 
•*•  Powers  the  vast  machinery  of  mercy  was  put  in 
the  field.  The  mobilisation  of  the  Red  Cross  army 
began — that  great  army  which  is  of  no  nation,  but  of 
all  nations,  of  no  creed  but  of  all  faiths,  of  one  flag 
for  all  the  world  and  that  flag  the  banner  of  the 
Crusaders. 

The  Red  Cross  is  the  wounded  soldier's  last  defence. 
Worn  as  a  brassard  on  the  left  arm  of  its  volunteers, 
it  conveys  a  higher  message  than  the  Victoria  Cross  of 
England,  the  Iron  Cross  of  Germany,  or  the  Cross  of 
the  Legion  of  Honour  of  France.  It  is  greater  than 
cannon,  greater  than  hate,  greater  than  blood-lust, 
greater  than  vengeance.  It  triumphs  over  wrath  as 
good  triumphs  over  evil.  Direct  descendant  of  the 
cross  of  the  Christian  faith,  it  carries  on  to  every 
battlefield  the  words  of  the  Man  of  Peace:  "Blessed 
are  the  merciful,  for  they  shall  obtain  mercy." 

The  care  of  the  wounded  in  war  has  been  the 
problem  of  the  ages.  Richard  the  Lion-Hearted  took 
a  hospital  ship  to  the  coast  of  Palestine.  The  German 
people  of  the  Middle  Ages  had  their  wounded  in  battle 
treated  by  their  wives,  who  followed  the  army  for  that 
purpose.  It  remained  for  Frederick  the  First  of  Prus- 

325 


326  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

sia  to  establish  a  military  service  in  connection  with  a 
standing  army. 

With  the  invention  of  firearms  battlefield  surgery 
faced  new  problems,  notably  hemorrhage,  and  took  a 
step  forward  to  meet  these  altered  conditions.  It  was 
a  French  surgeon  who  solved  the  problem  of  hemor- 
rhage by  tying  the  torn  blood  vessels  above  the  injury. 
To  England  goes  the  credit  for  the  prevention  of  sepsis, 
as  far  as  it  may  be  prevented  on  a  battlefield. 

As  far  as  it  may  be  prevented  on  a  battlefield !  For 
that  is  the  question  that  confronts  the  machinery  of 
mercy  to-day.  Transportation  to  the  hospitals  has  been 
solved,  to  a  large  extent,  by  motor  ambulances,  by  hos- 
pital trains,  by  converted  channel  steamers  connecting 
the  Continent  with  England.  Hospitals  in  the  western 
field  of  war  are  now  plentiful  and  some  are  well 
equipped.  The  days  of  bedding  wounded  men  down  on 
straw  are  largely  in  the  past,  but  how  to  prevent  the 
ravages  of  dirt,  the  so-called  "dirt  diseases"  of  gaseous 
gangrene,  blood  poisoning,  tetanus,  is  the  problem. 

I  did  not  see  the  first  exchange  of  hopelessly 
wounded  prisoners  that  took  place  at  Flushing,  while  I 
was  on  the  Continent.  It  must  have  been  a  tragic 
sight.  They  lined  up  in  two  parties  at  the  railroad  sta- 
tion, German  surgeons  and  nurses  with  British  prison- 
ers, British  surgeons  and  nurses  with  German  prison- 
ers. 

Then  they  were  counted  off,  I  am  told.  Ten  Ger- 
mans came  forward,  ten  British,  in  wheeled  chairs,  on 
crutches,  the  sightless  ones  led.  The  exchange  was 
made.  Then  ten  more,  and  so  on.  What  a  sight! 
What  a  horror!  No  man  there  would  ever  be  whole 
again.  There  were  men  without  legs,  without  arms, 
blind  men,  men  twisted  by  fearful  body  wounds.  Two 


THE  RED  BADGE  OF  MERCY  327 

hundred  and  sixteen  British  officers  and  men,  and  as 
many  Germans,  were  exchanged  that  day. 

"They  were,  however,  in  the  best  of  spirits/'  said 
the  London  Times  of  the  next  day ! 

At  Folkestone  a  crowd  was  waiting  on  the  quay, 
and  one  may  be  sure  that  heads  were  uncovered  as  the 
men  limped,  or  were  led  or  wheeled,  down  the  gang- 
plank. Kindly  English  women  gave  them  nosegays  of 
snowdrops  and  violets. 

And  then  they  went  on — to  what?  For  a  few 
weeks,  or  months,  they  will  be  the  objects  of  much 
kindly  sympathy.  In  the  little  towns  where  they  live 
visitors  will  be  taken  to  see  them.  The  neighbourhood 
.will  exert  itself  in  kindness.  But  after  a  time  interest 
will  die  away,  and  besides,  there  will  be  many  to  di- 
vide sympathy.  The  blind  man,  or  the  man  without 
a  leg  or  an  arm,  will  cease  to  be  the  neighbourhood's 
responsibility  and  will  become  its  burden. 

What  then?  For  that  is  the  problem  that  is  facing 
each  nation  at  war — to  make  a  whole  life  out  of  a 
fragment,  to  teach  that  the  spirit  may  be  greater  than 
the  body,  to  turn  to  usefulness  these  sad  and  hopeless 
by-products  of  battlefields. 

The  ravages  of  war — to  the  lay  mind — consist 
mainly  of  wounds.  As,  a  matter  of  fact,  they  divide 
themselves  into  several  classes,  all  different,  all  re- 
quiring different  care,  handling  and  treatment,  and  all, 
in  their  several  ways,  dependent  for  help  on  the  ma- 
chinery of  mercy.  In  addition  to  injuries  on  the  battle- 
field there  are  illnesses  contracted  on  the  field,  septic 
conditions  following  even  slight  abrasions  or  minor 
wounds,  and  nervous  conditions — sometimes  approxi- 
mating a  temporary  insanity — due  to  prolonged  strain, 
to  incessant  firing  close  at  hand,  to  depression  follow- 


328  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

ing  continual  lack  of  success,  to  the  sordid  and  hideous 
conditions  of  unburied  dead,  rotting  in  full  view  for 
weeks  and  even  months. 

During  the  winter  frozen  feet,  sometimes  requir- 
ing amputation,  and  even  in  mild  cases  entailing 
great  suffering,  took  thousands  of  men  out  of  the 
trenches.  The  trouble  resulted  from  standing  for 
hours  and  even  days  in  various  depths  of  cold  water, 
and  was  sometimes  given  the  name  "waterbite."  Sol- 
diers were  instructed  to  rub  their  boots  inside  and  out 
with  whale  oil,  and  to  grease  their  feet  and  legs. 
Unluckily,  only  fortunately  situated  men  could  be  so 
supplied,  arid  the  suffering  was  terrible.  Surgeons  who 
have  observed  many  cases  of  both  frost  and  water  bite 
say  that,  curiously  enough,  the  left  foot  is  more  fre- 
quently and  seriously  affected  than  the  right  The 
reason  given  is  that  right-handed  men  automatically 
use  the  right  foot  more  than  the  left,  make  more 
movements  with  it.  The  order  to  remove  boots  twice 
a  day,  for  a  few  moments  while  in  the  trenches,  had  a 
beneficial  effect  among  certain  battalions. 

The  British  soldier  who  wraps  tightly  a  khaki  puttee 
round  his  leg  and  thus  hampers  circulation  has  been 
a  particular  sufferer  from  frostbite  in  spite  of  the  pre- 
caution he  takes  to  grease  his  feet  and  legs  before  go- 
ing into  the  trenches. 

The  presence  of  septic  conditions  has  been  appalling. 

This  is  a  dirty  war.  Men  are  taken  back  to  the 
hospitals  in  incredible  states  of  filth.  Their  stiffened 
clothing  must  frequently  be  cut  off  to  reveal,  beneath, 
vermin-covered  bodies.  When  the  problem  of  trans- 
portation is  a  serious  one,  as  after  a  great  battle,  men 
must  lie  in  sheds  or  railway  stations,  waiting  their 
turn.  Wounds  turn  green  and  hideous.  Their  first-aid 


THE  RED  BADGE  OF  MERCY  329 

dressing,  originally  surgically  clean,  becomes  infected. 
Lucky  the  man  who  has  had  a  small  vial  of  iodine  to 
pour  over  the  gaping  surface  of  his  wound.  For  the 
time,  at  least,  he  is  well  off. 

The  very  soil  of  Flanders  seems  polluted.  British 
surgeons  are  sighing  for  the  clean  dust  of  the  Boer 
war  of  South  Africa,  although  they  cursed  it  at  the 
time.  That  it  is  not  the  army  occupation  which  is 
causing  the  grave  infections  of  Flanders  and  France  is 
shown  by  the  fact  that  the  trouble  dates  from  the 
beginning  of  the  war.  It  is  not  that  living  in  a  trencK 
undermines  the  vitality  of  the  men  and  lays  them  open 
to  infection.  On  the  contrary,  with  the  exception  of 
frost  bite,  there  is  a  curious  absence  of  such  troubles 
as  would  ordinarily  result  from  exposure,  cold  and 
constant  wetting. 

The  open-air  life  has  apparently  built  up  the  men. 
Again  and  again  the  extraordinary  power  of  resistance 
shown  has  astonished  the  surgeons.  It  is  as  if,  in 
forcing  men  to  face  overwhelming  hardships,  a  watch- 
ful Providence  had  granted  them  overwhelming  vi- 
tality. 

Perhaps  the  infection  of  the  soil,  the  typhoid-carry- 
ing waters  that  seep  through  and  into  the  trenches,  the 
tetanus  and  gangrene  that  may  infect  the  simplest 
wounds,  are  due  to  the  long  intensive  cultivation  of 
that  fertile  country,  to  the  fertilisation  by  organic  mat- 
ter of  its  fields.  Doubtless  the  vermin  that  cover  many 
of  the  troops  form  the  connecting  link  between  the 
soil  and  the  infected  men.  In  many  places  gasoline 
is  being  delivered  to  the  troopers  to  kill  these  pests, 
and  it  is  a  German  army  joke  that  before  a  charge  on 
a  Russian  trench  it  is  necessary  to  send  ahead  men  to , 
scatter  insect  powder!  So  serious  is  the  problem  in} 


330  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

the  east  indeed  that  an  official  order  from  Berlin  now 
requires  all  cars  returning  from  Russia  to  be  placarded 
"Aus  Russland!  Before  using  again  thoroughly  ster- 
ilise and  unlouse!"  And  no  upholstered  cars  are  al- 
lowed to  be  used. 

Generally  speaking,  a  soldier  is  injured  either  in  his 
trench  or  in  front  of  it  in  the  waste  land  between  the 
confronting  armies.  In  the  latter  case,  if  the  lines  are 
close  together  the  situation  is  still  further  complicated. 
It  may  be  and  often  is  impossible  to  reach  him  at  all. 
He  must  lie  there  for  hours  or  even  for  days  of  suffer- 
ing, until  merciful  death  overtakes  him.  When  he  can 
be  rescued  he  is,  and  many  of  the  bravest  deeds  of 
this  war  have  been  acts  of  such  salvage.  In  addition 
to  the  work  of  the  ambulance  corps  and  of  volunteer 
soldiers  who  often  venture  out  into  a  rain  of  death  to 
bring  in  fallen  officers  and  comrades  in  the  western 
field,  some  five  hundred  ambulance  dogs  are  being  used 
by  the  Allies  to  locate  the  wounded. 

When  a  man  is  injured  in  the  trenches  his  com- 
panions take  care  of  him  until  night,  when  it  is  possi- 
ble to  move  him.  His  first-aid  packet  is  opened,  a 
sterilised  bandage  produced,  and  the  dressing  applied 
to  the  wound.  Frequently  he  has  a  small  bottle  of 
iodine  and  the  wound  is  first  painted  with  that.  In 
cases  where  iodine  is  used  at  once,  chances  of  infection 
are  greatly  lessened.  But  often  he  must  lie  in  the 
trench  until  night,  when  the  ambulances  come  up.  His 
comrades  make  him  as  comfortable  as  they  can.  He 
lies  on  their  overcoats,  his  head  frequently  on  his  own 
pack. 

Fighting  goes  on  about  him,  above  him.  Other 
comrades  fall  in  the  trench  and  are  carried  and  laid 
near  him.  In  the  intervals  of  fighting,  men  bring  the 


THE  RED  BADGE  OF  MERCY  331 

injured  men  water.  For  that  is  the  first  cry — a  great 
and  insistent  need — water.  When  they  cannot  get 
water  from  the  canteens  they  drink  what  is  in  the 
bottom  of  the  trench. 

At  last  night  falls.  The  evening  artillery  duel,  ex- 
cept when  a  charge  is  anticipated,  is  greatly  lessened 
at  night,  and  infantry  fire  is  only  that  of  "snipers." 
But  over  the  trench  and  over  the  line  of  communica- 
tion behind  the  trench  hang  always  the  enemy's  "star- 
lights." 

The  ambulances  come  up.  They  cannot  come  as  far 
as  the  trenches,  but  stretchers  are  brought  and  the 
wounded  men  are  lifted  out  as  tenderly  as  possible. 

Many  soldiers  have  tried  to  tell  of  the  horrors  of  a 
night  journey  in  an  ambulance  or  transport;  careful 
driving  is  out  of  the  question.  Near  the  front  the 
ambulance  can  have  no  lights,  and  the  roads  every- 
where have  been  torn  up  by  shells. 

Men  die  in  transit,  and,  dying,  hark  back  to  early 
days.  They  call  for  their  mothers,  for  their  wives. 
They  dictate  messages  that  no  one  can  take  down. 
Unloaded  at  railway  stations,  the  dead  are  separated 
from  the  living  and  piled  in  tiers  on  trucks.  The 
wounded  lie  about  on  stretchers  on  the  station  floor. 
Sometimes  they  are  operated  on  there,  by  the  light  of 
a  candle,  it  may  be,  or  of  a  smoking  lamp.  When  it 
is  a  well-equipped  station  there  is  the  mercy  of  chloro- 
form, the  blessed  release  of  morphia,  but  more  times 
than  I  care  to  think  of  at  night,  there  has  been  no 
chloroform  and  no  morphia. 

France  has  sixty  hospital  trains,  England  twelve, 
Belgium  not  so  many. 

I  have  seen  trains  drawing  in  with  their  burden  of 
wounded  men.  They  travel  slowly,  come  to  a  gradual 


332  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

stop,  without  jolting  or  jarring;  but  instead  of  the 
rush  of  passengers  to  alight,  which  usually  follows  the 
arrival  of  a  train,  there  is  silence,  infinite  quiet. 
Then,  somewhere,  a  door  is  unhurriedly  opened.  May- 
be a  priest  alights  and  looks  about  him.  Perhaps  it  is 
a  nurse  who  steps  down  and  takes  a  comprehensive 
survey  of  conditions.  There  is  no  talking,  no  uproar. 
A  few  men  may  come  up  to  assist  in  lifting  out  the 
stretchers,  an  ambulance  driver  who  salutes  and  in- 
dicates with  a  gesture  where  his  car  is  stationed.  There 
are  no  onlookers.  This  is  business,  the  grim  business 
of  war.  The  line  of  stretchers  on  the  station  platform 
grows.  The  men  lie  on  them,  impassive.  They  have 
waited  so  long.  They  have  lain  on  the  battlefield,  in 
the  trench,  behind  the  line  at  the  dressing  shed,  wait- 
ing, always  waiting.  What  is  a  little  time  more  or 
less,  now? 

The  patience  of  the  injured !  I  have  been  in  many 
hospitals.  I  have  seen  pneumonia  and  typhoid  patients 
lying  in  the  fearful  apathy  of  disease.  They  are  very 
sad  to  see,  very  tragic,  but  their  patience  is  the  lethargy 
of  half  consciousness.  Their  fixed  eyes  see  visions. 
The  patience  of  the  wounded  is  the  resignation  of  alert 
'•faculties. 

Once  I  saw  a  boy  dying.  He  was  a  dark-haired, 
brown-eyed  lad  of  eighteen.  He  had  had  a  leg  shat- 
tered the  day  before,  and  he  had  lain  for  hours  unat- 
tended on  the  battlefield.  The  leg  had  been  amputated, 
and  he  was  dying  of  loss  of  blood. 

He  lay  alone,  in  a  small  room  of  what  had  once 
been  a  girls'  school.  He  had  asked  to  be  propped  up 
with  pillows,  so  that  he  could  breathe.  His  face  was 
grey,  and  only  his  eyes  were  alive.  They  burned  like 
jcoals.  He  was  alone.  The  hospital  was  crowded,  and 


THE  RED  BADGE  OF  MERCY  333 

there  were  others  who  could  be  saved.  So  he  lay  there, 
propped  high,  alone,  and  as  conscious  as  I  am  now, 
and  waited.  The  nurse  came  back  at  last,  and  his  eyes 
greeted  her. 

There  seemed  to  be  nothing  that  I  could  do.  Before 
his  conscious  eyes  I  was  an  intruder,  gazing  at  him  in 
his  extremity.  I  went  away.  And  now  and  then, 
when  I  hear  this  talk  of  national  honour,  and  am  car- 
ried away  with  a  hot  flame  of  resentment  so  that  I,  too, 
would  cry  for  war,  I  seem  to  see  that  dying  boy's  eyes, 
looking  through  the  mists  that  are  vengeance  and 
hatred  and  affronted  pride,  to  war  as  it  is — the  end 
of  hope,  the  gate  of  despair  and  agony  and  death. 

After  my  return  I  received  these  letters.  The  woman 
who  wrote  them  will,  I  know,  forgive  me  for  publish- 
ing extracts  from  them.  She  is  a  Belgian,  married 
to  an  American.  More  clearly  than  any  words  of 
mine,  they  show  where  falls  the  burden  of  war : 

"I  have  just  learned  that  my  youngest  brother  has 
been  killed  in  action  in  Flanders.  King  Albert  dec- 
orated him  for  conspicuous  bravery  on  April  22d,  and 
my  poor  boy  went  to  his  reward  on  April  26th.  In 
my  leaden  heart,  through  my  whirling  brain,  your 
words  keep  repeating  themselves :  'For  King  and  Coun- 
try !'  Yes,  he  died  for  them,  and  died  a  hero !  I  know 
only  that  his  regiment,  the  Grenadiers,  was  decimated. 
My  poor  little  boy !  God  pity  us  all,  and  save  martyred 
Belgium!" 

In  a  second  letter: 

"I  enclose  my  dear  little  boy's  obituary  notice.  He 
died  at  the  head  of  his  company  and  five  hundred  and 
seventy-four  of  his  Grenadiers  went  down  with  him. 
Their  regiment  effectively  checked  the  German  ad- 
vance, and  in  recognition  General  Joffre  pinned  the 


334  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honour  to  his  regimental  col- 
ours. But  we  are  left  to  mourn — though  I  do  not 
begrudge  my  share  of  sorrow.  The  pain  is  awful,  and 
I  pray  that  by  the  grace  of  God  you  may  never  know 
what  it  means." 
*  For  King  and  Country! 

The  only  leaven  in  this  black  picture  of  war  as  I 
have  seen  it,  as  it  has  touched  me,  has  been  the  scarlet 
of  the  Red  Cross.  To  a  faith  that  the  terrible  scenes 
at  the  front  had  almost  destroyed,  came  every  now; 
and  then  again  the  flash  of  the  emblem  of  mercy. 
Hope,  then,  was  not  dead.  There  were  hands  to 
soothe  and  labour,  as  well  as  hands  to  kill.  There  was 
still  brotherly  love  in  the  world.  There  was  a  courage 
that  was  not  of  hate.  There  was  a  patience  that  was 
not  a  lying  in  wait.  There  was  a  flag  that  was  not  of 
one  nation,  but  of  all  the  world ;  a  flag  that  needed  no 
recruiting  station,  for  the  ranks  it  led  were  always 
full  to  overflowing;  a  flag  that  stood  between  the 
wounded  soldier  and  death;  that  knew  no  defeat  but 
surrender  to  the  will  of  the  God  of  Battles. 

And  that  flag  I  followed.  To  the  front,  to  the  field 
hospitals  behind  the  trenches,  to  railway  stations,  to 
hospital  trains  and  ships,  to  great  base  hospitals.  I 
watched  its  ambulances  on  shelled  roads.  I  followed  its 
brassards  as  their  wearers,  walking  gently,  carried 
stretchers  with  their  groaning  burdens.  And,  what- 
ever may  have  failed  in  this  war — treaties,  ammuni- 
tion, elaborate  strategies,  even  some  of  the  humanities 
— 'the  Red  Cross  as  a  symbol  of  service  has  never 
failed. 

I  was  a  critical  observer.  I  am  a  graduate  of  a. 
hospital  training-school,  and  more  or  less  for  years  I 
have  been  in  touch  with  hospitals.  I  myself  was  en- 


THE  RED  BADGE  OF  MERCY  335 

rolled  under  the  Red  Cross  banner.  I  was  prepared 
for  efficiency.  What  I  was  not  prepared  for  was  the 
absolute  self-sacrifice,  the  indifference  to  cost  in  effort, 
in  very  life  itself,  of  a  great  army  of  men  and  women. 
I  saw  English  aristocrats  scrubbing  floors;  I  found 
American  surgeons  working  day  and  night  under  the 
very  roar  and  rattle  of  guns.  I  found  cultured  women 
of  every  nation  performing  the  most  menial  tasks. 
I  found  an  army  where  all  are  equal — priests,  surgeons, 
scholars,  chauffeurs,  poets,  women  of  the  stage,  young 
girls  who  until  now  have  been  shielded  from  the  very 
name  of  death — all  enrolled  under  the  red  badge  of 
mercy. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 
IN   TERMS   OF   LIFE   AND   DEATH 


of  the  first  hospitals  I  saw  was  in  Calais. 
We  entered  a  muddy  courtyard  through  a  gate, 
and  the  building  loomed  before  us.  It  had  been  a 
girls'  convent  school,  and  was  now  a  military  hospital 
for  both  the  French  and  British  armies,  one  half  the 
building  being  used  by  each.  It  was  the  first  war  hos- 
pital I  had  seen,  and  I  was  taken  through  the  building 

by  Major  S ,  of  the  Royal  Army  Medical  Corps. 

It  was  morning,  and  the  corridors  and  stairs  still  bore 
the  mud  of  the  night,  when  the  ambulances  drive  into 
the  courtyard  and  the  stretchers  are  carried  up  the 
stairs.  It  had  been  rather  a  quiet  night,  said  Major 

S .  The  operations  were  already  over,  and  now 

the  work  of  cleaning  up  was  going  on. 

He  opened  a  door,  and  we  entered  a  long  ward. 

I  live  in  a  great  manufacturing  city.  Day  by  day 
its  mills  take  their  toll  in  crushed  bodies.  The  sight 
of  broken  humanity  is  not  new  to  me.  In  a  general 
way,  it  is  the  price  we  pay  for  prosperity.  Individ- 
ually, men  so  injured  are  the  losers  in  life's  great 
struggle  for  food  and  shelter. 

I  had  never  before  seen  men  dying  of  an  ideal. 

There  is  a  terrible  sameness  in  war  hospitals.  There 
are  rows  of  beds,  and  in  them  rows  of  unshaven,  white- 
faced  men.  Some  of  them  turn  and  look  at  visitors. 

336 


IN  TERMS  OF  LIFE  AND  DEATH          337 

Others  lie  very  still,  with  their  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ceiling,  or  eternity,  or  God  knows  what.  Now  and 
then  one  is  sleeping. 

"He  has  slept  since  he  came  in,"  the  nurse  will 
say;  "utter  exhaustion." 

Often  they  die.  If  there  is  a  screen,  the  death  takes 
place  decently  and  in  order,  away  from  the  eyes  of 
the  ward.  But  when  there  is  no  screen,  it  makes  little 
difference.  What  is  one  death  to  men  who  have  seen 
so  many? 

Once  men  thought  in  terms  of  a  day's  work,  a 
night's  sleep,  of  labour  and  play  and  love.  But  all 
over  Europe  to-day,  in  hospital  and  out,  men  are  learn- 
ing to  think  in  terms  of  life  and  death.  What  will  be 
the  result  ?  A  general  brutalising  ?  The  loss  of  much 
that  is  fine  ?  Perhaps.  There  are  some  who  think  that 
it  will  scourge  men's  souls  clean  of  pettiness,  teach 
them  proportion,  give  them  a  larger  outlook.  But  is  it 
petty  to  labour  and  love?  Is  the  duty  of  the  nation 
greater  than  the  duty  of  the  home?  Is  the  nation 
greater  than  the  individual  ?  Is  the  whole  greater  than 
the  sum  of  its  parts? 

Ward  after  ward.  Rows  of  quiet  men.  The  occa- 
sional thump  of  a  convalescent's  crutch.  The  swish  of 
a  nurse's  starched  dress.  The  strangled  grunt  of  a 
man  as  the  dressing  is  removed  from  his  wound.  The 
hiss  of  coal  in  the  fireplace  at  the  end  of  the  ward.  • 
Perhaps  a  priest  beside  a  bed,  or  a  nun.  Over  all,  the 
heavy  odour  of  drugs  and  disinfectants.  Brisk  nurses 
go  about,  cheery  surgeons,  but  there  is  no  real  cheer. 
The  ward  is  waiting. 

I  saw  a  man  who  had  been  shot  in  the  lungs.  His 
lungs  were  filled  with  jagged  pieces  of  steel.  He  was 
inhaling  oxygen  from  a  tank.  There  was  an  inhaler 


338  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

strapped  over  his  mouth  and  nostrils,  and  the  oxygen 
passed  through  a  bottle  of  water,  to  moisten  it  before 
it  entered  his  tortured  lungs. 

The  water  in  the  bottle  seethed  and  bubbled,  and  the 
man  lay  and  waited. 

He  was  waiting  for  the  next  breath.  Above  the 
mask  his  eyes  were  fixed,  intent.  Would  it  come?  Ah, 
that  was  not  so  bad.  Almost  a  full  breath  that  time. 
But  he  must  have  another,  and  another. 

They  are  all  waiting ;  for  death,  maybe ;  for  home ; 
for  health  again,  or  such  travesty  of  health  as  may 
come,  for  the  hospital  is  not  an  end  but  a  means.  It  is 
an  interval.  It  is  the  connecting  link  between  the 
trenches  and  home,  between  war  and  peace,  between 
life  and  death. 

That  one  hospital  had  been  a  school.  The  children's 
lavatory  is  now  the  operating  room.  There  are  rows 
of  basins  along  one  side,  set  a  trifle  low  for  childish 
hands.  When  I  saw  them  they  were  faintly  rimmed 
with  red.  There  was  a  locker  room  too.  Once  these 
lockers  had  held  caps,  no  doubt,  and  overshoes,  balls 
and  other  treasures.  Now  they  contained  torn  and 
stained  uniforms,  weapons,  knapsacks. 

Does  it  matter  how  many  wards  there  were,  or  how 
many  surgeons  ?  Do  figures  mean  anything  to  us  any 
more?  When  we  read  in  the  spring  of  1915  that  the 
British  Army,  a  small  army  compared  with  the  others, 
had  lost  already  in  dead,  wounded  and  missing  more 
than  a  quarter  of  a  million  men  we  could  not  visualise 
it.  Multiply  one  ward  by  infinity,  one  hospital  by 
thousands,  and  then  try  to  realise  the  terrible  by-prod- 
ucts of  war! 

In  that  Calais  hospital  I  saw  for  the  first  time  the 
apparatus  for  removing  bits  of  shell  and  shrapnel  di- 


IN  TERMS  OF  LIFE  AND  DEATH          339 

rectly  under  the  X-ray.  Four  years  ago  such  a  pro- 
cedure would  have  been  considered  not  only  marvelous 
but  dangerous. 

At  that  time,  in  Vienna  and  Berlin,  I  saw  men  with 
hands  hopelessly  burned  and  distorted  as  the  result 
of  merely  taking  photographic  plates  with  the  X-ray. 
Then  came  in  lead-glass  screens — screens  of  glass 
made  with  a  lead  percentage. 

Now,  as  if  science  had  prepared  for  this  great  emer- 
gency, operators  use  gloves  saturated  with  a  lead  solu- 
tion, and  right-angled  instruments,  and  operate  directly 
in  the  ray.  For  cases  where  immediate  extraction  is 
inadvisable  or  unnecessary  there  is  a  stereoscopic  ar- 
rangement of  plates  on  the  principle  of  our  familiar 
stereoscope,  which  shows  an  image  with  perspective 
and  locates  the  foreign  body  exactly. 

One  plate  I  saw  had  a  story  attached  to  it. 

I  was  stopping  in  a  private  house  where  a  tall  Bel- 
gian surgeon  lived.  In  the  morning,  after  breakfast, 
I  saw  him  carefully  preparing  a  tray  and  carrying  it 
upstairs.  There  was  a  sick  boy,  still  in  his  teens,  up 
there.  As  I  passed  the  door  I  had  seen  him  lying  there, 
gaunt  and  pale,  but  plainly  convalescent. 

Happening  to  go  up  shortly  after,  I  saw  the  tall 
surgeon  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  the  tray  on  his  knees. 
And  later  I  heard  the  story : 

The  boy  was  his  son.  During  the  winter  he  had  been 
injured  and  taken  prisoner.  The  father,  in  Calais,  got 
word  that  his  boy  was  badly  injured  and  lying  in  a 
German  hospital  in  Belgium.  He  was  an  only  son. 

I  do  not  know  how  the  frenzied  father  got  into 
Belgium.  Perhaps  he  crept  through  the  German  lines. 
He  may  have  gone  to  sea  and  landed  on  the  sand  dunes 
near  Zeebrugge.  It  does  not  matter  how,  for  he 


340  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

found  his  boy.  He  went  to  the  German  authorities  and 
got  permission  to  move  him  to  a  private  house.  The 
boy  was  badly  hurt.  He  had  a  bullet  in  the  wall  of  the 
carotid  artery,  for  one  thing,  and  a  fractured  thigh. 
The  father  saw  that  his  recovery,  if  it  occurred  at  all, 
would  be  a  matter  of  skillful  surgery  and  unremitting 
care,  but  the  father  had  a  post  at  Calais  and  was  badly 
needed. 

He  took  a  wagon  to  the  hospital  and  got  his  boy. 
Then  he  drove,  disguised  I  believe  as  a  farmer,  over 
the  frontier  into  Holland.  The  boy  was  covered  in 
the  bottom  of  the  wagon.  In  Holland  they  got  a 
boat  and  went  to  Calais.  All  this,  with  that  sharp- 
pointed  German  bullet  in  the  carotid  artery!  And  at 
Calais  they  took  the  plate  I  have  mentioned  and  got 
out  the  bullet. 

The  last  time  I  saw  that  brave  father  he  was  sitting 
beside  his  son,  and  the  boy's  hand  was  between  both 
of  his. 

Nearly  all  the  hospitals  I  saw  had  been  schools.  In 
one  that  I  recall,  the  gentle-faced  nuns,  who  by  edict 
no  longer  exist  in  France,  were  still  living  in  a  wing 
of  the  school  building.  They  had  abandoned  their 
quaint  and  beautiful  habit  for  the  ugly  dress  of  the 
French  provinces — odd  little  bonnets  that  sat  gro- 
tesquely on  the  tops  of  their  heads,  stuffy  black  dresses, 
black  cotton  gloves.  They  would  like  to  be  useful, 
but  they  belonged  to  the  old  regime. 

Under  their  bonnets  their  faces  were  placid,  but  their 
eyes  were  sad.  Their  schoolrooms  are  hospital  wards, 
the  tiny  chapel  is  piled  high  with  supplies;  in  the  re- 
fectory, where  decorous  rows  of  small  girls  were  wont 
to  file  in  to  the  convent  meals,  unthinkable  horrors  of 
operations  go  on  all  day  and  far  into  the  night.  The 


IN  TERMS  OF  LIFE  AND  DEATH          341 

Hall  of  the  Holy  Rosary  is  a  convalescent  room,  where 
soldiers  smoke  and  play  at  cards.  The  Room  of  the 
Holy  Angels  contains  a  steriliser.  Through  the  corri- 
dors that  once  re-echoed  to  the  soft  padding  of  their 
felt  shoes  brisk  English  nurses  pass  with  a  rustle  of 
skirts. 

Even  the  cross  by  which  they  lived  has  turned  red, 
the  colour  of  blood. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 
THE   LOSING   GAME 


T  SAW  a  typhoid  hospital  in  charge  of  two  women 
*•  doctors.  It  was  undermanned.  There  were  not 
enough  nurses,  not  enough  orderlies. 

One  of  the  women  physicians  had  served  through 
the  Balkan  war. 

"There  was  typhoid  there/'  she  said,  "but  nothing  to 
compare  with  this  in  malignancy.  Nearly  all  the  cases 
have  come  from  one  part  of  Belgium." 

Some  of  the  men  were  wounded,  in  addition  to  the 
fever.  She  told  me  that  it  was  impossible  to  keep 
things  in  proper  order  with  the  help  they  had. 

"And  food !"  she  said.  "We  cannot  have  eggs.  They 
are  prohibitive  at  twenty-five  centimes — five  cents — < 
each ;  nor  many  broths.  Meat  is  dear  and  scarce,  and 
there  are  no  chickens.  We  give  them  stewed  macaroni 
and  farinaceous  things.  It's  a  terrible  problem." 

The  charts  bore  out  what  she  had  said  about  the 
type  of  the  disease.  They  showed  incredible  tem- 
peratures, with  the  sudden  drop  that  is  perforation  or 
hemorrhage. 

The  odour  was  heavy.  Men  lay  there,  far  from 
home,  babbling  in  delirium  or,  with  fixed  eyes,  picking 
at  the  bed  clothes.  One  was  going  to  die  that  day. 
Others  would  last  hardly  longer. 

"They  are  all  Belgians  here,"  she  said.  "The  Brit- 
(342 


THE  LOSING  GAME  343 

ish  and  French  troops  have  been  inoculated  against 
typhoid." 

So  here  again  the  Belgians  were  playing  a  losing 
game.  Perhaps  they  are  being  inoculated  now.  I  do 
not  know.  To  inoculate  an  army  means  much  money, 
and  where  is  the  Belgian  Government  to  get  it?  It 
seems  the  tragic  irony  of  fate  that  that  heroic  little 
army  should  have  been  stationed  in  the  infested  terri- 
tory. Are  there  any  blows  left  to  rain  on  Belgium? 

In  a  letter  from  the  Belgian  lines  the  writer 
says: 

"This  is  just  a  race  for  life.  The  point  is,  which 
will  get  there  first,  disease  and  sickness  caused  by 
drinking  water  unspeakably  contaminated,  or  sterilis- 
ing plants  to  avoid  such  a  disaster." 

Another  letter  from  a  different  writer,  also  in  Bel- 
gium at  the  front,  says : 

"A  friend  of  mine  has  just  been  invalided  home  with 
enteritis.  He  had  been  drinking  from  a  well  with  a 
dead  Frenchman  in  it!" 

The  Belgian  Soldiers'  Fund  in  the  spring  of  1915 
sent  out  an  appeal,  which  said: 

"The  full  heat  of  summer  will  soon  be  upon  the 
army,  and  the  dust  of  the  battlefield  will  cause  the 
men  to  suffer  from  an  intolerable  thirst." 

This  is  a  part  of  the  appeal : 

"It  is  said  that  out  of  the  27,000  men  who  gave  their 
lives  in  the  South  African  war  7000  only  were  killed, 
whilst  20,000  died  of  enteritis,  contracted  by  drinking 
impure  water. 

"In  order  to  save  their  army  from  the  fatal  effects 
of  contaminated  water,  the  Belgian  Army  medical  au- 
thorities have,  after  careful  tests,  selected  the  follow- 
ing means  of  sterilisation — boiling,  ozone  and  violet 


344  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

rays — as  the  most  reliable  methods  for  obtaining  large 
supplies  of  pure  water  rapidly. 

"Funds  are  urgently  needed  to  help  the  work  of 
providing  and  distributing  a  pure  water  supply  in  the 
following  ways: 

"i.  By  small  portable  sterilising  plants  for  every 
company  to  produce  and  distribute  from  twenty  to  a 
hundred  gallons  of  pure  cold  water  per  hour. 

"2.  By  sterilisers  easy  of  adjustment  for  all  field 
hospitals,  convalescent  homes,  medical  depots,  and  so 
forth. 

"3.  By  large  sterilising  plants,  capable  of  produc- 
ing from  150  gallons  upward  per  hour,  to  provide  a 
pure  water  supply  for  all  the  devastated  towns  through 
which  the  army  must  pass. 

"4.  By  the  sterilisation  of  contaminated  pools  and 
all  surface  water,  under  the  direction  of  leading  scien- 
tific experts  who  have  generously  offered  their  services. 

"5.  By  pocket  filters  for  all  who  may  have  to 
work  out  of  reach  of  the  sterilising  plants,  and  so 
iorth. 

"6.  By  two  hundred  field  kitchens  on  the  battlefield 
to  serve  out  soup,  coffee  or  other  drinks  to  the  men 
fighting  in  the  trenches  or  on  the  march." 

Everywhere,  at  the  front,  I  found  the  gravest  appre- 
hension as  to  water  supply  in  case  the  confronting 
armies  remained  in  approximately  the  same  position. 
Sir  John  French  spoke  of  it,  and  the  British  are  pro- 
viding a  system  of  sterilised  water  for  their  men. 
Merely  providing  so  many  human  beings  with  water  is 
a  tremendous  problem.  Along  part  of  the  line,  quite 
aside  from  typhoid  contamination,  the  water  is  now 
impregnated  with  salt  water  from  the  sea.  If  even 
wells  contain  dead  bodies,  how  about  the  open  water- 


THE  LOSING  GAME  345 

courses  ?  Wounded  men  must  have  water.  It  is  their 
first  and  most  insistent  cry. 

People  will  read  this  who  have  never  known  the 
thirst  of  the  battlefield  or  the  parched  throat  that  fol- 
lows loss  of  blood;  people  who,  by  the  turning  of  a 
tap,  may  have  all  the  water  they  want.  Perhaps 
among  them  there  are  some  who  will  face  this  problem 
of  water  as  America  has  faced  Belgium's  problem  of 
food.  For  the  Belgian  Army  has  no  money  at  all  for 
sterilisers,  for  pocket  filters ;  has  not  the  means  to  in- 
oculate the  army  against  typhoid;  has  little  of  any- 
thing. The  revenues  that  would  normally  support  the 
army  are  being1  collected — in  addition  to  a  war  in- 
demnity— by  Germany. 

Any  hope  that  conditions  would  be  improved  by  a] 
general  spring  movement  into  uncontaminated  terri- 
tory has  been  dispelled.  The  war  has  become  a  gi- 
gantic siege,  varied  only  by  sorties  and  assaults.  As 
long  ago  as  November,  1914,  the  situation  as  to  drink- 
ing water  was  intolerable.  I  quote  again  from  the 
diary  taken  from  the  body  of  a  German  officer  after 
the  battle  of  the  Yser — a  diary  published  in  full  in  an 
earlier  chapter. 

"The  water  is  bad,  quite  green,  indeed;  but  all  the 
same  we  drink  it — we  can  get  nothing  else.  Man  is 
brought  down  to  the  level  of  the  brute  beast." 

There  is  little  or  no  typhoid  among  the  British 
troops.  They,  too,  no  doubt,  have  realised  the  value 
of  conservation,  and  to  inoculation  have  added  careful 
supervision  of  wells  and  of  watercourses.  But  when  I 
was  at  the  front  the  Belgian  Army  of  fifty  thousand 
trained  soldiers  and  two  hundred  thousand  recruits 
was  dependent  on  springs  oozing  from  fields  that  were 
vast  graveyards;  on  sluggish  canals  in  which  lay  the 


346  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

bodies  of  men  and  horses ;  and  on  a  few  tank  wagons 
that  carried  fresh  water  daily  to  the  front. 

A  quarter  of  a  million  dollars  would  be  needed  to 
install  a  water  supply  for  the  Belgian  Army  and  for 
the  civilians — residents  and  refugees — gathered  behind 
the  lines.  To  ask  the  American  people  to  shoulder 
this  additional  burden  is  out  of  the  question.  But 
perhaps,  somewhere  among  the  people  who  will  read 
this,  there  is  one  great-hearted  and  wealthy  American 
who  would  sleep  better  of  nights  for  having  lifted  to 
the  lips  of  a  wounded  soldier  the  cup  of  pure  water 
that  he  craves;  for  having  furnished  to  ten  thousand 
wounds  a  sterile  and  soothing  wet  compress. 

Dunkirk  was  full  of  hospitals  when  I  was  there. 
Probably  the  subsequent  shelling  of  the  town  destroyed 
some  of  them.  I  do  not  know.  A  letter  from  Calais, 
dated  May  2ist,  1915,  says: 

"I  went  through  Dunkirk  again.  Last  time  I  was 
there  it  was  a  flourishing  and  busy  market  day.  This 
time  the  only  two  living  souls  I  saw  were  the  soldiers 
who  let  us  in  at  one  gate  and  out  at  the  other.  In  the 
interval,  as  you  know,  the  town  had  been  shelled  by 
fifteen-inch  guns  from  a  distance  of  twenty-three  miles. 
Many  buildings  in  the  main  streets  had  been  reduced 
to  ruins,  and  nearly  all  the  windows  in  the  town  had 
been  smashed." 

There  is,  or  was,  a  converted  Channel  steamer  at 
Dunkirk  that  is  now  a  hospital.  Men  in  all  stages  of 
mutilation  are  there.  The  salt  winds  of  the  Channel 
blow  in  through  the  open  ports.  The  boat  rises  and 
falls  to  the  swell  of  the  sea.  The  deck  cabins  are 
occupied  by  wounded  officers,  and  below,  in  the  long 
saloon,  are  rows  of  cots. 

I  went  there  on  a  bright  day  in  February.    There 


THE  LOSING  GAME  347 

was  a  young  officer  on  the  deck.  He  had  lost  a  leg 
at  the  hip,  and  he  was  standing  supported  by  a  crutch 
and  looking  out  to  sea.  He  did  not  even  turn  his  head 
when  we  approached. 

General  M  ,  the  head  of  the  Belgian  Army 

medical  service,  who  had  escorted  me,  touched  him  on 
the  arm,  and  he  looked  round  without  interest. 

"For  conspicuous  bravery!"  said  the  General,  and 
showed  me  the  medal  he  wore  on  his  breast. 

However,  the  young  officer's  face  did  not  lighten, 
and  very  soon  he  turned  again  to  the  sea.  The  time 
will  come,  of  course,  when  the  tragedy  of  his  mutila- 
tion will  be  less  fresh  and  poignant,  when  the  Order  of 
Leopold  on  his  breast  will  help  to  compensate  for 
many  things ;  but  that  sunny  morning,  on  the  deck  of 
the  hospital  ship,  it  held  small  comfort  for  him. 

We  went  below.  At  our  appearance  at  the  top  of 
the  stairs  those  who  were  convalescent  below  rose  and 
stood  at  attention.  They  stood  in  a  line  at  the  foot 
of  their  beds,  boys  and  grizzled  veterans,  clad  in  motley 
garments,  supported  by  crutches,  by  sticks,  by  a  hand 
on  the  supporting  back  of  a  chair.  Men  without  a 
country,  where  were  they  to  go  when  the  hospital  ship 
had  finished  with  them?  Those  who  were  able  would 
go  back  to  the  army,  of  course.  But  what  of  that 
large  percentage  who  will  never  be  whole  again  ?  The 
machinery  of  mercy  can  go  so  far,  and  no  farther. 
France  cannot  support  them.  Occupied  with  her  own 
burden,  she  has  persistently  discouraged  Belgian  ref- 
ugees. They  will  go  to  England  probably — a  kindly 
land  but  of  an  alien  tongue.  And  there  again  they 
will  wait. 

The  waiting  of  the  hospital  will  become  the  waiting 
of  the  refugee.  The  Channel  coast  towns  of  England^ 


348  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

are  full  of  human  derelicts  who  stand  or  sit  for  hours, 
looking  wistfully  back  toward  what  was  once  home. 

The  story  of  the  hospitals  is  not  always  gloomy. 
Where  the  surroundings  are  favourable,  defeat  is 
sometimes  turned  to  victory.  Tetanus  is  being  fought 
and  conquered  by  means  of  a  serum.  The  open  treat- 
ment of  fractures — that  is,  by  cutting  down  and  ex- 
posing the  jagged  edges  of  splintered  bones,  and  then 
uniting  them — has  saved  many  a  limb.  Conservation 
is  the  watchword  of  the  new  surgery,  to  save  whenever 
possible.  The  ruthless  cutting  and  hacking  of  previous 
wars  is  a  thing  of  the  past. 

I  remember  a  boy  in  a  French  hospital  whose  leg 
bones  had  been  fairly  shattered.  Eight  pieces,  the 
surgeon  said  there  had  been.  Two  linear  incisions, 
connected  by  a  centre  one,  like  a  letter  H,  had  been 
made.  The  boy  showed  me  the  leg  himself,  and  a 
mighty  proud  and  happy  youngster  he  was.  There 
was  no  vestige  of  deformity,  no  shortening.  The  in- 
cisions had  healed  by  first  intention,  and  the  thin, 
white  lines  of  the  H  were  all  that  told  the  story. 

As  if  to  offset  the  cheer  of  that  recovery,  a  man  in 
the  next  bed  was  dying  of  an  abdominal  injury.  I 
saw  the  wound.  May  the  mother  who  bore  him,  the 
wife  he  loved,  never  dream  of  that  wound! 

I  have  told  of  the  use  of  railway  stations  as  tem- 
porary resting  places  for  injured  soldiers.  One  is 
typical  of  them  all.  As  my  visit  was  made  during  a 
lull  in  the  fighting,  conditions  were  more  than  usually 
favourable.  There  was  no  congestion. 

On  a  bright  afternoon  early  in  March  I  went  to 
the  railway  station  three  miles  behind  the  trenches  at 

E .  Only  a  mile  away  a  town  was  being  shelled. 

One  could  look  across  the  fields  at  the  changing  roof 


THE  LOSING  GAME  349 

line,  at  a  church  steeple  that  had  so  far  escaped.  But 
no  shells  were  falling  in  E . 

The  station  was  a  small  village  one.  In  the  room 
corresponding  to  our  baggage-room  straw  had  been 
spread  over  the  floor,  and  men  just  out  of  the  trenches 
lay  there  in  every  attitude  of  exhaustion.  In  a  tiny 
room  just  beyond  two  or  three  women  were  making 
soup.  As  fast  as  one  kettle  was  ready  it  was  served 
to  the  hungry  men.  There  were  several  kettles — all 
the  small  stove  would  hold.  Soup  was  there  in  every 
state,  from  the  finished  product  to  the  raw  meat  and 
vegetables  on  a  table. 

Beyond  was  a  waiting-room,  with  benches.  Here 
were  slightly  injured  men,  bandaged  but  able  to  walk 
about.  A  few  slept  on  the  benches,  heads  lolled  back 
against  the  whitewashed  wall.  The  others  were  pay- 
ing no  attention  to  the  incessant,  nearby  firing,  but 
were  watching  a  boy  who  was  drawing. 

He  had  a  supply  of  coloured  crayons,  and  the  walls 
as  high  as  he  could  reach  were  almost  covered.  There 
were  priests,  soldier  types,  caricatures  of  the  German 
Emperor,  the  arms  of  France  and  Belgium — I  do  not 
remember  what  all.  And  it  was  exceedingly  well  done. 
The  boy  was  an  artist  to  his  finger  tips. 

At  a  clever  caricature  of  the  German  Emperor  the 
soldiers  laughed  and  clapped  their  hands.  While  they 
were  laughing  I  looked  through  an  open  door. 

Three  men  lay  on  cots  in  an  inner  room — rather, 
two  men  and  a  boy.  I  went  in. 

One  of  the  men  was  shot  through  the  spine  and 
paralysed.  The  second  one  had  a  bullet  in  his  neck, 
and  his  face  already  bore  the  dark  flush  and  anxious 
look  of  general  infection.  The  boy  smiled. 

They  had  been  there  since  the  day  before,  waiting 


350  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

for  a  locomotive  to  come  and  move  the  hospital  train 
that  waited  outside.  In  that  railway  station  the  boy 
had  had  his  leg  taken  off  at  the  knee. 

They  lay  there,  quite  alone.  The  few  women  were 
feeding  starving  men.  Now  and  then  one  would  look 
in  to  see  if  there  was  any  change.  There  was  nothing 
to  be  done.  They  lay  there,  and  the  shells  burst  in- 
cessantly a  mile  away,  and  the  men  in  the  next  room 
laughed  and  applauded  at  some  happy  stroke  of  the 
young  artist. 

"I  am  so  sorry/'  I  said  to  the  boy.  The  others  had 
not  roused  at  my  entrance,  but  he  had  looked  at  me 
with  quick,  intelligent  eyes. 

"It  is  nothing !"  was  his  reply. 

Outside,  in  the  village,  soldiers  thronged  the  streets. 
The  sun  was  shining  with  the  first  promise  of  spring. 
In  an  area  way  regimental  butchering  was  going  on, 
and  a  great  sow,  escaping,  ran  frenzied  down  the  street, 
followed  by  a  throng  of  laughing,  shouting  men.  And 
still  the  shells  fell,  across  a  few  fields,  and  inside  the 
station  the  three  men  lay  and  waited. 

That  evening  at  dusk  the  bombardment  ceased,  and 
I  went  through  the  shelled  town.  It  was  difficult  to 
get  about.  Walls  had  fallen  across  the  way,  interiors 
that  had  been  homes  gaped  open  to  the  streets.  Shat- 
tered beds  and  furnishings  lay  about — kitchen  utensils, 
broken  dishes.  On  some  of  the  walls  holy  pictures 
still  hung,  grouped  about  a  crucifix.  There  are  many 
to  tell  how  the  crucifix  has  escaped  in  the  wholesale 
destruction  of  towns. 

A  shoemaker  had  come  back  into  the  village  for  the 
night,  and  had  opened  his  shop.  For  a  time  he  seemed 
to  be  the  only  inhabitant  of  what  I  had  known,  a 
short  time  before,  as  a  prosperous  and  thriving  market 


THE  LOSING  GAME  351 

town.  Then  through  an  aperture  that  had  been  a 
window  I  saw  three  women  sitting  round  a  candle. 
And  in  the  next  street  I  found  a  man  on  his  knees  on 
the  pavement,  working  with  bricks  and  a  trowel. 

He  explained  that  he  had  closed  up  a  small  cellar- 
way.  His  family  had  no  place  else  to  go  and  were 
coming  in  from  the  fields,  where  they  had  sought 
safety,  to  sleep  in  the  cellar  for  the  night.  He  was 
leaving  a  small  aperture,  to  be  closed  with  bags  of 
sand,  so  that  if  the  house  was  destroyed  over  them 
in  the  night  they  could  crawl  out  and  escape. 

He  knelt  on  the  bricks  in  front  of  the  house,  a 
patient,  resigned  figure,  playing  no  politics,  interested 
not  at  all  in  war  and  diplomacy,  in  a  way  to  the  sea 
or  to  a  place  in  the  sun — one  of  the  millions  who  must 
adapt  themselves  to  new  and  fearsome  situations  and 
do  their  best 

That  night,  sitting  at  dinner  in  a  hotel,  I  saw  two 
pretty  nurses  come  in.  They  had  been  relieved  for  a 
few  hours  from  their  hospital  and  were  on  holiday. 

One  of  them  had  a  clear,  although  musical  voice. 
What  she  said  came  to  me  with  great  distinctness,  and 
what  she  was  wishing  for  was  a  glass  of  American 
soda  water! 

Now,  long  months  before  I  had  had  any  idea  of 
going  to  the  war  I  had  read  an  American  correspond- 
ent's story  of  the  evacuation  of  Antwerp,  and  of  a 
tall  young  American  girl,  a  nurse,  whom  the  others 
called  Morning  Glory.  He  never  knew  the  rest  of  her 
name.  Anyhow,  Morning  Glory  leaped  into  my  mind 
and  stayed  there,  through  soup,  through  rabbit,  which 
was  called  on  the  menu  something  entirely  different, 
through  hard  cakes  and  a  withered  orange. 

So  when  a  young  lieutenant  asked  permission  to 


352  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

bring  them  over  to  meet  me,  I  was  eager.  It  was 
Morning  Glory!  Her  name  is  really  Glory,  and  she 
is  a  Southern  girl.  Somewhere  among  my  papers  I 
have  a  snapshot  of  her  helping  to  take  a  wounded 
soldier  out  of  an  ambulance,  and  if  the  correspondent 
wants  it  I  shall  send  it  to  him.  Also  her  name,  which 
he  never  knew.  And  I  will  verify  his  opinion  that  it 
is  better  to  be  a  Morning  Glory  in  Flanders  than  to 
be  a  good  many  other  things  that  I  can  think  of. 


WITH  the  possible  exception  of  Germany,  which 
seems  to  have  anticipated  everything,  no  one  of 
the  nations  epgaged  appears  to  have  expected  the  fear- 
ful carnage  of  this  war.  The  destructive  effect  of  the 
modern,  high-explosive  shell  has  been  well  known,  but 
it  is  the  trench  form  of  warfare  which,  by  keeping 
troops  in  stationary  positions,  under  grilling  artillery 
fire,  has  given  such  shells  their  opportunity.  Shrap- 
nel has  not  been  so  deadly  to  the  men  in  the  trenches. 

The  result  of  the  vast  casualty  lists  has  been  some 
hundreds  of  isolated  hospitals  scattered  through 
France,  not  affiliated  with  any  of  the  Red  Cross  so- 
cieties, unorganised,  poverty-stricken,  frequently  hav- 
ing only  the  services  of  a  surgeon  who  can  come  but 
once  a  week.  They  have  no  dressings,  no  nurses  save 
peasants,  no  bedding,  no  coal  to  cook  even  the  scanty 
food  that  the  villagers  can  spare. 

No  coal,  for  France  is  facing  a  coal  famine  to-day. 
Her  coal  mines  are  in  the  territory  held  by  the  Ger- 
mans. Even  if  she  had  the  mines,  where  would  she 
get  men  to  labour  in  them,  or  trains  to  transport  the 
coal? 

There  are  more  than  three  hundred  such  hospitals 
scattered  through  isolated  French  villages,  hospitals 
where  everything  is  needed.  For  whatever  else  held 

353 


354  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

fast  during  the  first  year  of  the  war,  the  nursing 
system  of  France  absolutely  failed.  Some  six  hundred 
miles  of  hospital  wards  there  are  to-day  in  France, 
with  cots  so  close  together  that  one  can  hardly  step 
1  between.  It  is  true  that  with  the  passing  of  time,  the 
first  chaos  is  giving  way  to  order.  But  France,  unlike 
England,  has  the  enemy  within  her  boundaries,  on  her 
soil.  Her  every  resource  is  taxed.  And  the  need  is 
still  great. 

The  story  of  the  town  of  D ,  in  Brittany,  is  very 

typical  of  what  the  war  has  brought  into  many  isolated 
communities. 

D is  a  little  town  of  two  thousand  inhabitants, 

with  a  thirteenth-century  church,  with  mediaeval  houses 
with  quaint  stone  porticoes  and  outside  staircases. 
There  is  one  street,  shaped  like  a  sickle,  with  a  handle 
that  is  the  station  road. 

War  was  declared  and  the  men  of  D — > — went  away. 
The  women  and  children  brought  in  the  harvest,  and 
waited  for  news.  What  little  came  was  discourag- 
ing. 

One  day  in  August  one  of  the  rare  trains  stopped  at 
the  station,  and  an  inspector  got  off  and  walked 
up  the  sickle-handle  to  the  schoolhouse.  He  looked 
about  and  made  the  comment  that  it  would  hold 

eighty  beds.  Whereupon  he  went  away,  and  D 

waited  for  news  and  gathered  the  harvest. 

On  the  fifth  of  September,  1914,  the  terrific  battle  of 
the  Marne  commenced.  The  French  strategic  retreat 
was  at  an  end,  and  with  her  allies  France  resumed  the 
offensive.  What  happened  in  the  little  village  of 
D ? 

And  remember  that  D is  only  one  of  hundreds 

of  tiny  interior  towns.  D  <  has  never  heard  of  the 


HOW  AMERICANS  CAN  HELP  355 

Red  Cross,  but  D venerated,  in  its  thirteenth-cen- 
tury church,  the  Cross  of  Christ 

This  is  what  happened : 

One  day  in  the  first  week  of  September  a  train  drew 
up  at  the  box-like  station,  a  heterogeneous  train — 
coaches,  luggage  vans,  cattle  and  horse  cars.  The 
doors  opened,  and  the  work  of  emptying  the  cars  be- 
gan. The  women  and  children,  aghast  and  bewildered, 
ran  down  the  sickle-handle  road  and  watched.  Four 
hundred  wounded  men  were  taken  out  of  the  cars, 
laid  prone  on  the  station  platform,  and  the  train  went 
on. 

There  were  no  surgeons  in  D ,  but  there  was  a 

chemist  who  knew  something  of  medicine  and  who, 
for  one  reason  or  another,  had  not  been  called  to  the 
ranks.  There  were  no  horses  to  draw  carts.  There 
was  nothing. 

The  chemist  was  a  man  of  action.  Very  soon  the 
sickle  and  the  old  church  saw  a  curious  sight.  They 
saw  women  and  children,  a  procession,  pushing 
wounded  men  to  the  school  in  the  hand  carts  that 
country  people  use  for  milk  cans  and  produce.  They 
saw  brawny  peasant  women  carrying  chairs  in  which 
sat  injured  men  with  lolling  heads  and  sunken 
eyes. 

Bales  of  straw  were  brought  into  the  school.  Ten- 
der, if  unaccustomed,  hands  washed  fearful  wounds, 
but  there  were  no  dressings,  no  bandages. 

Any  one  who  knows  the  French  peasant  and  his 
poverty  will  realise  the  plight  of  the  little  town.  The 
peasant  has  no  reserves  of  supplies.  Life  is  reduced 
to  its  simplest  elements.  There  is  nothing  that  is  not 
in  use. 

D solved  part  of  its  problem  by  giving  up  its 


356  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

own  wooden  beds  to  the  soldiers.  It  tore  up  its  small 
stock  of  linen,  its  towels,  its  dusters;  but  the  problem 
of  food  remained. 

There  was  a  tiny  stove,  on  which  the  three  or  four 
teachers  of  the  school  had  been  accustomed  to  cook 
their  midday  meal.  There  was  no  coal,  only  wood, 
and  green  wood  at  that.  All  day,  and  all  day  now, 
D — i —  cooks  the  pot-a-feu  for  the  wounded  on  that 
tiny  stove.  Pot-a-feu  is  good  diet  for  convalescents, 
but  the  "light  diets"  must  have  eggs,  broth,  whatever 
can  be  found. 

So  the  peasant  woman  of  D comes  to  the  hospi- 
tal, bringing  a  few  eggs,  the  midday  meal  of  her  fam- 
ily, who  will  do  without. 

I  have  spoken  mainly  in  the  past  tense,  but  conditions 
in  D are  not  greatly  changed  to-day.  An  old  mar- 
quise, impoverished  by  the  war,  darns  the  pathetic 
socks  of  the  wounded  men  and  mends  their  uniforms. 
At  the  last  report  I  received,  the  corridors  and  school- 
rooms were  still  filled — every  inch  of  space — with 
a  motley  collection  of  beds,  on  which  men  lay  in 
their  uniforms,  for  lack  of  other  clothing.  They  were 
covered  with  old  patchwork  quilts,  with  anything  that 
can  be  used.  There  were,  of  course,  no  sheets.  All  the 
sheets  were  used  long  ago  for  dressings.  A  friend  of 
mine  there  recently  saw  a  soldier  with  one  leg,  in  the 
kitchen,  rolling  wretched  scraps  and  dusters  for  band- 
ages. There  was  no  way  to  sterilise  them,  of  course. 
Once  a  week  a  surgeon  comes.  When  he  goes  away 
he  takes  his  instruments  with  him. 

This  is  not  an  isolated  case,  nor  an  exaggerated  one. 
There  are  things  I  do  not  care  to  publish.  Three 
hundred  and  more  such  hospitals  are  known.  The 
French  Government  pays,  or  will  pay,  twenty-five 


HOW  AMERICANS  CAN  HELP  357 

cents  a  day  to  keep  these  men.  Black  bread  and  pot-a- 
feu  is  all  that  can  be  managed  on  that  amount. 

Convalescents  sit  up  in  bed  and  painfully  unravel 
their  tattered  socks  for  wool.  They  tie  the  bits  to- 
gether, often  two  or  three  inches  in  length,  and  knit 
new  feet  in  old  socks,  or — when  they  secure  enough — 
new  socks.  For  the  Germans  hold  the  wool  cities  of 
France.  Ordinarily  worsted  costs  eighteen  and  nine- 
teen francs  in  Dinard  and  Saint  Malo,  or  from  three 
dollars  and  sixty  cents  to  three  dollars  and  eighty 
cents  a  pound.  Much  of  the  government  reserves  of 
woollen  underwear  for  the  soldiers  was  in  the  captured 
towns,  and  German  prisoners  have  been  found  wear- 
ing woollens  with  the  French  Government  stamp. 

Every  sort  of  building  is  being  used  for  these  iso- 
lated hospitals — garages,  town  halls,  private  dwellings, 
schools.  At  first  they  had  no  chloroform,  no  instru- 
ments. There  are  cases  on  record  where  automobile 
tools  were  used  in  emergency,  kitchen  knives,  saws, 
anything.  In  one  case,  last  spring,  two  hundred  con- 
valescents, leaving  one  of  these  hospitals  on  a  cold  day 
in  March,  were  called  back,  on  the  arrival  of  a  hun- 
dred freshly  wounded  men,  that  every  superfluous 
bandage  on  their  wounds  might  be  removed,  to  be  used 
again. 

Naturally,  depending  entirely  on  the  unskilled 
nursing  of  the  village  women,  much  that  we  regard  as 
fundamental  in  hospital  practice  is  ignored.  Wounded 
men,  typhoid  and  scarlet  fever  cases  are  found  in  the 
same  wards.  In  one  isolated  town  a  single  clinical 
thermometer  is  obliged  to  serve  for  sixty  typhoid  and 
scarlet  fever  patients.* 

Sometimes  the  men  in  these  isolated  and  ill-equipped 

*  Written  in  June,  1915. 


358  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

refuges  realise  the  horror  and  hopelessness  of  their 
situation.  The  nights  are  particularly  bad.  Any  one 
who  knows  hospitals  well,  knows  the  night  terrors  of 
.the  wards;  knows,  too,  the  contagion  of  excitement 
that  proceeds  from  a  hysterial  or  delirious  patient. 

In  some  of  these  lonely  hospitals  hell  breaks  loose  at 
night.  The  peasant  women  must  sleep.  Even  the  tire- 
less nuns  cannot  labour  forever  without  rest.  The  men 
have  come  from  battlefields  of  infinite  horror.  A 
frenzied  dream,  a  delirious  soldier  calling  them  to 
the  charge,  and  panic  rages. 

To  offset  these  horrors  of  the  night  the  peasants 
have,  here  and  there,  resorted  to  music.  It  is  naive, 
pathetic.  Where  there  is  a  piano  it  is  moved  into  the 
school,  or  garage,  or  whatever  the  building  may  be, 
and  at  twilight  a  nun  or  a  volunteer  musician  plays 
quietly,  to  soothe  the  men  to  sleep.  In  one  or  two 
towns  a  village  band,  or  perhaps  a  lone  cornetist,  plays 
in  the  street  outside. 

So  the  days  go  on,  and  the  nights.  Supplies  are 
begged  for  and  do  not  always  come.  Dressings  are 
washed,  to  be  used  again  and  again. 

An  attempt  is  now  being  made  to  better  these  con- 
ditions. A  Frenchwoman  helping  in  one  of  these  hos- 
pitals, and  driven  almost  to  madness  by  the  outcries  of 
men  and  boys  undergoing  operations  without  anses-  j 
thetics,  found  her  appeals  for  help  unanswered.  She 
decided  to  go  to  England  to  ask  her  friends  there  for 
chloroform,  and  to  take  it  back  on  the  next  boat.  She 
was  successful.  She  carried  back  with  her,  on  numer- 
ous journeys,  dressings,  chloroform,  cotton,  even  a 
few  instruments.  She  is  still  doing  this  work.  Others 
interested  in  isolated  hospitals,  hearing  of  her  suc- 
cess, appealed  to  her;  and  now  regular,  if  small,  ship- 


HOW  AMERICANS  CAN  HELP  359 

ments  of  chloroform  and  dressings  are  going  across 
the  Channel. 

Americans  willing  to  take  their  own  cars,  and  will- 
ing to  work,  will  find  plenty  to  do  in  distributing  such 
supplies  over  there.  A  request  has  come  to  me  to  find 
such  Americans.  Surgeons  who  can  spare  a  scalpel, 
an  artery  clip  or  two,  ligatures — catgut  or  silk — and 
forceps,  may  be  certain  of  having  them  used  at 
once.  Bandages  rolled  by  kindly  American  hands  will 
not  lie  unclaimed  on  the  quay  at  Havre  or  Calais. 

So  many  things  about  these  little  hospitals  of  France 
are  touching,  without  having  any  particular  connec- 
tion. There  was  a  surgeon  in  one  of  these  isolated 
villages,  with  an  X-ray  machine  but  no  gloves  or  lead 
screen  to  protect  himself.  He  worked  on,  using  the 
deadly  rays  to  locate  pieces  of  shell,  bullets  and  shrap- 
nel, and  knowing  all  the  time  what  would  happen.  He 
has  lost  both  hands. 

Since  my  return  to  America  the  problems  of  those 
who  care  for  the  sick  and  wounded  have  been  further 
complicated,  among  the  Allies,  by  the  inhuman  use  of 
asphyxiating  gases. 

Sir  John  French  says  of  these  gases: 

"The  effect  of  this  poison  is  not  merely  disabling, 
or  even  painlessly  fatal,  as  suggested  in  the  German 
press.  Those  of  its  victims  who  do  not  succumb  on 
the  field  and  who  can  be  brought  into  hospitals  suffer 
acutely  and,  in  a  large  proportion  of  cases,  die  a  pain- 
ful and  lingering  death.  Those  who  survive  are  in 
little  better  case,  as  the  injury  to  their  lungs  appears 
to  be  of  a  permanent  character  and  reduces  them  to  a 
condition  that  points  to  their  being  invalids  for 
life." 

I  have  received  from  the  front  one  of  the  respirators 


360  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

given  out  to  the  troops  to  be  used  when  the  gas  clouds 
appear. 

"It  is  prepared  with  hypophosphite  of  soda,"  wrote 
the  surgeon  who  sent  it,  "and  all  they  have  to  do  be- 
fore putting  it  on  is  to  dip  it  in  the  water  in  the 
trenches.  They  are  all  supplied  in  addition  with  gog- 
gles, which  are  worn  on  their  caps." 

This  is  from  the  same  letter: 

"That  night  a  German  soldier  was  brought  in 
wounded,  and  jolly  glad  he  was  to  be  taken.  He  told 
us  he  had  been  turned  down  three  times  for  phthisis — 
tuberculosis — and  then  in  the  end  was  called  up  and 
put  into  the  trenches  after  eight  weeks'  training.  All 
of  which  is  very  significant.  Another  wounded  Ger- 
man told  the  men  at  the  ambulance  that  they  must 
move  on  as  soon  as  they  could,  as  very  soon  the  Ger- 
mans would  be  in  Calais. 

"All  the  German  soldiers  write  home  now  on  the 
official  cards,  which  have  Calais  printed  on  the  top 
of  them!" 

Not  all.  I  have  before  me  a  card  from  a  German 
officer  in  the  trenches  in  France.  It  is  a  good-natured 
.bit  of  raillery,  with  something  of  grimness  underneath. 

"Dear  Madame: 

"  'I  nibble  them' — Joffre.  See  your  article  in  the 
Saturday  Evening  Post  of  May  29th,  1915.  Really, 
Joffre  has  had  time !  It  is  September  now,  and  we  are 
not  nibbled  yet.  Still  we  stand  deep  in  France.  Au 
revoir  a  Paris,  Madame." 

He  signs  it  "Yours  truly,"  and  then  his  name. 
Not  Calais,  then,  but  Paris! 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 
AN  ARMY  OF  CHILDREN 


T  T  is  undeniably  true  that  the;  humanities  are  failing 
•*•  us  as  the  war  goes  on.  Not,  thank  God,  the  broad 
humanity  of  the  Red  Cross,  but  that  individual  com- 
passion of  a  man  for  his  wounded  brother,  of  which 
the  very  fabric  of  mercy  is  woven.  There  is  too 
much  death,  too  much  suffering.  Men  grow  calloused. 
As  yet  the  loss  is  not  irretrievable,  but  the  war  is  still 
only  a  matter  of  months.  What  if  it  is  to  be  of 
years  ? 

France  and  Belgium  were  suffering  from  a  wave 
of  atheism  before  the  war.  But  there  comes  a 
time  in  the  existence  of  nations,  as  in  the  lives  of 
individuals,  when  human  endeavour  seems  useless, 
when  the  world  and  the  things  thereof  have  failed.  At 
such  time  nations  and  individuals  alike  turn  at  last  to 
a  Higher  Power.  France  is  on  her  knees  to-day.  Her 
churches  are  crowded.  Not  perhaps  since  the  days  of 
chivalry,  when  men  were  shriven  in  the  churches  be- 
fore going  out  to  battle,  has  France  so  generally  knelt 
and  bowed  her  head — but  it  is  to  the  God  of  Battles 
that  she  prays. 

On  her  battlefields  the  priests  have  most  signally  dis- 
tinguished themselves.  Some  have  exchanged  the  sou- 
tane for  the  uniform,  and  have  fought  bravtly  and 
well.  Others,  like  the  priests  who  stood  firm  in 

361 


362  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

the  midst  of  Jordan,  have  carried  their  message  of 
hope  to  the  dying  into  the  trenches. 

No  article  on  the  work  of  the  Red  Cross  can  be 
complete  without  a  reference  to  the  work  of  these 
priests,  not  perhaps  affiliated  with  the  society,  but  do- 
ing yeoman  work  of  service  among  the  wounded. 
They  are  everywhere,  in  the  trenches  or  at  the  out- 
posts, in  the  hospitals  and  hospital  trains,  in  hundreds 
of  small  villages,  where  the  entire  community  plus  its 
burden  of  wounded  turns  to  the  cure  for  everything, 
from  advice  to  the  sacrament. 

In  prostrate  Belgium  the  demands  on  the  priests 
have  been  extremely  heavy.  Subjected  to  insult,  injury 
and  even  death  during  the  German  invasion,  where  in 
one  diocese  alone  thirteen  were  put  to  death — their 
churches  destroyed,  or  used  as  barracks  by  the  enemy 
— that  which  was  their  world  has  turned  to  chaos 
about  them.  Those  who  remained  with  their  conquered 
people  have  done  their  best  to  keep  their  small  com- 
munities together  and  to  look  after  their  material 
needs — which  has,  indeed,  been  the  lot  of  the  priests  of 
battle-scarred  Flanders  for  many  generations. 

Others  have  attached  themselves  to  the  hospital  serv- 
ice. All  the  Belgian  trains  of  wounded  are  cared  for 
solely  by  these  priests,  who  perform  every  necessary 
service  for  their  men,  and  who,  as  I  have  said  before, 
administer  the  sacrament  and  make  coffee  to  cheer 
the  flagging  spirits  of  the  wounded,  with  equal  cour- 
age and  resource. 

Surgeons,  nurses,  priests,  nuns,  volunteer  workers 
who  substitute  for  lack  of  training  both  courage  and 
zeal,  these  are  a  part  of  the  machinery  of  mercy. 
There  is  another  element — the  boy  scouts. 

During  the  early  days  of  the  war  the  boy  scouts 


AN  ARMY  OF  CHILDREN  363 

of  England,  then  on  school  holiday,  did  marvellous 
work.  Boys  of  fourteen  made  repeated  trips  across 
the  Channel,  bringing  back  from  France  children,  in- 
valids, timorous  women.  They  volunteered  in  the 
hospitals,  ran  errands,  carried  messages,  were  as  useful 
as  only  willing  boys  can  be.  They  did  scout  service, 
too,  guarding  the  railway  lines  and  assisting  in  watch- 
ing the  Channel  coast;  but  with  the  end  of  the  holi- 
day most  of  the  English  boy  scouts  were  obliged  to  go 
back  to  school.  Their  activities  were  not  over,  but 
they  were  largely  curtailed. 

There  were  five  thousand  boy  scouts  in  Belgium  at 
the  beginning  of  the  war.  I  saw  them  everywhere — 
behind  the  battle  lines,  on  the  driving  seats  of  ambu- 
lances, at  the  doors  of  hospitals.  They  were  very 
calm.  Because  I  know  a  good  deal  about  small  boys  I 
smothered  a  riotous  impulse  to  hug  them,  and  spoke  to 
them  as  grown-up  to  grown-up.  Thus  approached, 
they  met  my  advances  with  dignity,  but  without  ex- 
citement. 

And  after  a  time  I  learned  something  about  them 
from  the  Chief  Scout  of  Belgium ;  perhaps  it  will  show 
the  boy  scouts  of  America  what  they  will  mean  to  the 
country  in  time  of  war.  Perhaps  it  will  make  them 
realise  that  being  a  scout  is  not,  after  all,  only  camp- 
ing in  the  woods,  long  hikes,  games  in  the  open.  The 
long  hikes  fit  a  boy  for  dispatch  carrying,  the  camping 
teaches  him  to  care  for  himself  when,  if  necessity 
arises,  he  is  thrown  on  the  country,  like  his  older 
brother,  the  fighting  man. 

A  small  cog,  perhaps,  in  the  machinery  of  mercy, 
but  a  necessary  one.  A  vital  cog  in  the  vast  machinery 
of  war — that  is  the  boy  scout  to-day. 

The  day  after  the  declaration  of  war  the  Belgian 


364  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

scouts  were  mobilised,  by  order  of  the  minister  of 
war — five  thousand  boys,  then,  ranging  in  age  from 
twelve  to  eighteen,  an  army  of  children.  What  a 
sight  they  must  have  been!  How  many  grown-ups 
can  think  of  it  with  dry  eyes?  What  a  terrible  emer- 
gency was  this,  which  must  call  the  children  into 
battle ! 

They  were  placed  at  the  service  of  the  military  au- 
thorities, to  do  any  and  every  kind  of  work.  Some, 
with  ordinary  bicycles  or  motorcyles,  were  made  dis- 
patch riders.  The  senior  scouts  were  enlisted  in  the 
regular  army,  armed,  and  they  joined  the  soldiers  in 
barracks.  The  younger  boys,  between  thirteen  and 
sixteen,  were  letter-carriers,  messengers  in  the  differ- 
ent ministries,  or  orderlies  in  the  hospitals  that  were 
immediately  organised.  Those  who  could  drive  auto- 
mobiles were  given  that  to  do. 

Others  of  the  older  boys,  having  been  well  trained 
in  scouting,  were  set  to  watch  points  of  importance, 
or  given  carbines  and  attached  to  the  civic  guard. 
During  the  siege  of  Liege  between  forty  and  fifty  boy 
scouts  were  constantly  employed  carrying  food  and 
ammunition  to  the  beleaguered  troops. 

The  Germans  finally  realised  that  every  boy  scout 
was  a  potential  spy,  working  for  his  country.  The 
uniform  itself  then  became  a  menace,  since  boys  wear- 
ing it  were  frequently  shot.  The  boys  abandoned  it, 
the  older  ones  assuming  the  Belgian  uniform  and  the 
younger  ones  returning  to  civilian  dress.  But  al- 
though, in  the  chaos  that  followed  the  invasion  and 
particularly  the  fall  of  Liege,  they  were  virtually  dis- 
banded, they  continued  their  work  as  spies,  as  dispatch 
riders,  as  stretcher-bearers. 

There  are  still  nine  boy  scouts  with  the  famous 


AN  ARMY  OF  CHILDREN  365 

Ninth  Regiment,  which  has  been  decorated  by  the 
king. 

One  boy  scout  captured,  single-handed,  two  Ger- 
man officers.  Somewhere  or  other  he  had  got  a  re- 
volver, and  with  it  was  patrolling  a  road.  The  offi- 
cers were  lost  and  searching  for  their  regiments.  As 
they  stepped  out  of  a  wood  the  boy  confronted  them, 
with  his  revolver  levelled.  This  happened  near  Liege. 

Trust  a  boy  to  use  his  wits  in  emergency !  Here  is 
another  lad,  aged  fifteen,  who  found  himself  in  Liege 
after  its  surrender,  and  who  wanted  to  get  back  to  the 
Belgian  Army.  He  offered  his  services  as  stretcher- 
bearer  in  the  German  Army,  and  was  given  a  German 
Red  Cross  pass.  Armed  with  this  pass  he  left  Liege, 
passed  successfully  many  sentries,  and  at  last  got  to 
Antwerp  by  a  circuitous  route.  On  the  way  he  found 
a  dead  German  and,  being  only  a  small  boy  after  all, 
he  took  off  the  dead  man's  stained  uniform  and  bore 
it  in  his  arms  into  Antwerp ! 

There  is  no  use  explaining  about  that  uniform.  If 
you  do  not  know  boys  you  will  never  understand.  If 
you  do,  it  requires  no  explanation. 

Here  is  a  fourteen-year-old  lad,  intrusted  with  a 
message  of  the  utmost  importance  for  military  head- 
quarters in  Antwerp.  He  left  Brussels  in  civilian 
clothing,  but  he  had  neglected  to  take  off  his  boy  scout 
shirt — boy-f ashion !  The  Germans  captured  him  and 
stripped  him,  and  they  burned  the  boy  scout  shirt. 
Then  they  locked  him  up,  but  they  did  not  find  his 
message. 

All  day  he  lay  in  duress,  and  part  of  the  night.  Per- 
haps he  shed  a  few  tears.  He  was  very  young,  and 
things  looked  black  for  him.  Boy  scouts  were  being 
shot,  remember!  But  it  never  occurred  to  him  to* 


366  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

destroy  the  message  that  meant  his  death  if  discovered. 

He  was  clever  with  locks  and  such  things,  after  the 
manner  of  boys,  and  for  most  of  the  night  he  worked 
with  the  window  and  shutter  lock.  Perhaps  he 
had  a  nail  in  his  pocket,  or  some  wire.  Most 
boys  have.  And  just  before  dawn  he  got  window 
and  shutter  opened,  and  dropped,  a  long  drop,  to  the 
ground.  He  lay  there  for  a  while,  getting  his  breath 
and  listening.  Then,  on  his  stomach,  he  slid 
away  into  the  darkest  hour  that  is  just  before  the 
dawn. 

Later  on  that  day  a  footsore  and  weary  but  tri- 
umphant youngster  presented  himself  at  the  head- 
quarters of  the  Belgian  Army  in  Antwerp  and  insisted 
on  seeing  the  minister  of  war.  Being  at  last  admitted, 
he  turned  up  a  very  travel-stained  and  weary  little 
boy's  foot  and  proceeded  to  strip  a  piece  of  adhesive 
plaster  from  the  sole. 

Underneath  the  plaster  was  the  message  I 

War  is  a  thing  of  fearful  and  curious  anomalies.  It 
has  shown  that  humane  units  may  comprise  a  brutal 
whole;  that  civilisation  is  a  shirt  over  a  coat  of  mail. 
It  has  shown  that  hatred  and  love  are  kindred  emo- 
tions, boon  companions,  friends.  It  has  shown  that 
in  every  man  there  are  two  men,  devil  and  saint ;  that 
there  are  two  courages,  that  of  the  mind,  which  is 
bravest,  that  of  the  heart,  which  is  greatest. 

It  has  shown  that  government  by  men  only  is  not  an 
appeal  to  reason,  but  an  appeal  to  arms;  that  on 
women,  without  a  voice  to  protest,  must  fall  the  bur- 
den. It  is  easier  to  die  than  to  send  a  son  to  death. 

It  has  shown  that  a  single  hatred  may  infect  a 
world,  but  it  has  shown  that  mercy  too  may  spread 


AN  ARMY  OF  CHILDREN  367 

among  nations.  That  love  is  greater  than  cannon, 
greater  than  hate,  greater  than  vengeance ;  that  it  tri- 
umphs over  wrath,  as  good  triumphs  over  evil. 

Direct  descendant  of  the  cross  of  the  Christian 
faith,  the  Red  Cross  carries  onto  every  battlefield  the 
words  of  the  Man  of  Mercy : 

"Blessed  are  the  merciful,  for  they  shall  obtain 
mercy." 

On  a  day  in  March  I  went  back  to  England.  March 
in  England  is  spring.  Masses  of  snowdrops  lined 
the  paths  in  Hyde  Park.  The  grass  was  green,  the 
roads  hard  and  dry  under  the  eager  feet  of  Kitchener's 
great  army.  They  marched  gayly  by.  The  drums 
beat.  The  passers-by  stopped.  Here  and  there  an 
open  carriage  or  an  automobile  drew  up,  and  pale 
men,  some  of  them  still  in  bandages,  sat  and  watched. 
In  their  eyes  was  the  same  flaming  eagerness,  the  same 
impatience  to  get  back,  to  be  loosed  against  the  old 
lion's  foes. 

All  through  England,  all  through  France,  all 
through  the  tragic  corner  of  Belgium  that  remains  to 
her,  were  similar  armies  drilling  and  waiting,  equally 
young,  equally  eager,  equally  resolute.  And  the  thing 
that  they  were  going  to  I  knew.  I  had  seen  it  in  that 
mysterious  region  that  had  swallowed  up  those  who 
had  gone  before;  in  the  trenches,  in  the  operating 
rooms  of  field  hospitals,  at  outposts  where  the  sentries 
walked  hand  in  hand  with  death. 

War  is  not  two  great  armies  meeting  in  the  clash 
and  frenzy  of  battle.  War  is  a  boy  carried  on  a 
stretcher,  looking  up  at  God's  blue  sky  with  bewildered 
eyes  that  are  soon  to  close ;  war  is  a  woman  carrying 
a  child  that  has  been  injured  by  a  shell ;  war  is  spirited 
horses  tied  in  burning  buildings  and  waiting  for  death ; 


368  KINGS,  QUEENS  AND  PAWNS 

war  is  the  flower  of  a  race,  battered,  hungry,  bleeding, 
up  to  its  knees  in  filthy  water;  war  is  an  old  woman 
burning  a  candle  before  the  Mater  Dolorosa  for  the 
son  she  has  given. 

For  King  and  Country! 


THE    END 


FOUR  TIMELY  BOOKS  OF 
INTERNATIONAL  IMPORTANCE 

I  ACCUSE  Q 'ACCUSE!)  By  a  German.     A  Scathing 
Arraignment  of  the  German  War  Policy. 

At  this  vital  time  in  the  nation's  history  every  patriotic  American 
should  read  and  reread  this  wonderful  book  and  learn  the  absurdity 
of  the  German  excuse  that  they  wanted  a  "Place  in  the  Sun." 

Learn  how  the  German  masses  were  deluded  with  the  idea  that 
they  were  making  a  defensive  war  to  protect  the  Fatherland. 

Let  the  author  of  this  illuminating  book  again  show  the  sacrilege 
of  claiming  a  Christian  God  as  a  Teutonic  ally  and  riddle  once  more 
the  divine  right  of  kings. 

PAN-GERMANISM.     By  Roland  G.  Usher. 

The  clear,  graphic  style  gives  it  a  popular  appeal  that  sets  it  miles 
apart  from  the  ordinary  treatise,  and  for  the  reader  who  wishes  to 
get  a  rapid  focus  on  the  world  events  of  the  present,  perhaps  no 
book  written  will  be  more  interesting. 

It  is  the  only  existing  forecast  of  exactly  the  present  development 
of  events  in  Europe.  It  is,  besides,  a  brisk,  clear,  almost  primer- 
like  reduction  of  the  complex  history  of  Europe  during  the  last  forty 
years  to  a  simple,  connected  story  clear  enough  to  the  most  casual 
reader. 

THE  CHALLENGE  OF  THE  FUTURE.  By  Roland 
G.  Usher. 

A  glance  into  America's  future  by  the  man  who,  in  his  book'PAN- 
GERMANISM,  foretold  with  such  amazing  accuracy  the  coming  of 
the  present  European  events.  An  exceedingly  live  and  timely  book 
that  is  bound  to  be  read  and  discussed  widely  because  it  strikes  to 
the  heart  of  American  problems,  and  more  especially  because  it  hits 
right  and  left  at  ideas  that  have  become  deep-seated  convictions  in 
many  American  minds. 

THE  EVIDENCE  IN  THE  CASE.       By  James  M. 
Beck,  LL.  D.  t   Formerly  Assistant  Attorney-General 
of  the  United  States,  Author  of  the   "War  and  Hu- 
manity. *    With  an  Introduction  by  the  Hon.  Joseph 
H.  Choate,Late  U.  S.  Ambassador  to  Great  Britain. 
No  work  on  the  War  has  made  a  deeper  impression  throughout 
the  world  than  "The  Evidence  in  the  Case,"  a  calm,  dispassionate, 
but  forceful   discussion  of  the  moral  responsibility  for  the  present 
war  as  disclosed  by  the  diplomatic  papers.  Arnold  Bennett  says  that 
it  "is  certainly  by  far  the  most  convincing  indictment  of  Germany  in 
existence." 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK 


THE    LITTLE 


JOHN  FOX,  JR'S. 

STORIES   OF  THE  KENTUCKY  MOUNTAINS 

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THE  TRAIL   OF  THE    LONESOME  PINE., 
Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

The  "lonesome  pine"  from  which  the 
story  takes  its  name  was  a  tall  tree  that 
stood  in  solitary  splendor  on  a  mountain 
top.  The  fame  of  the  pine  lured  a  young 
engineer  through  Kentucky  to  catch  the 
trail,  and  when  he  finally  climbed  to  its 
shelter  he  found  not  only  the  pine  but  the 
foot-prints  of  a  girl.  And  the  girl  proved 
to  be  lovely,  piquant,  and  the  trail  of 
these  girlish  foot-prints  led  the  young 
engineer  a  madder  chase  than  "the  trau 
of  the  lonesome  pine." 

SHEPHERD  OF  KINGDOM  COME 
Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

This  is  a  story  of  Kentucky,  in  a  settlement  known  as  "King- 
dom Come."  It  is  a  life  rude,  semi-barbarous;  but  natural 
and  honest,  from  which  often  springs  the  flower  of  civilization. 

"  Chad."  the  "little  shepherd"  did  not  know  who  he  was  nor 
whence  he  came  —  he  had  just  wandered  from  door  to  door  since 
early  childhood,  seeking  shelter  with  kindly  mountaineers  who 
gladly  fathered  and  mothered  this  waif  about  whom  there  was 
such  a  mystery  —  a  charming  waif,  by  the  way,  who  could  play 
the  banjo  better  that  anyone  else  in  the  mountains. 

A'KNIGHT  OF  .THE    CUMBERLAND.  ; 
Illustrated   by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

The  scenes  are  laid  along  the  waters  of  the  Cumberland* 
the  lair  of  moonshiner  and  f  eudsman.  The  knight  is  a  moon- 
shiner's son,  and  the  heroine  a  beautiful  girl  perversely  chris- 
tened "The  Blight."  Two  impetuous  young  Southerners'  fall 
under  the  spell  of  "The  Blight's  "  charms  and  she  learns  what 
a  large  part  jealousy  and  pistols  have  in  the  love  making  of  the 
mountaineers. 

^Included  in  this  volume  is  "  Hell  fer-Sartain"  and  other 
stories,  some  of  Mr.  Fox's  most  entertaining  Cumberland  valley 
narratives. 

Ask  for  complete  fret  list  of  G.  &  D.  Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


THE  NOVELS  OF 

WINSTON  CHURCHILL 

THE  INSIDE  OF  THE  CUP.    Illustrated  by  Howard  Giles. 

The  Reverend  John  Hodder  is  called  to  a  fashionable  church  in 
a  middle-western  city.  He  knows  little  of  modern  problems  and  in 
his  theology  is  as  orthodox  as  the  rich  men  who  control  his  church 
could  desire.  But  the  facts  of  modern  life  are  thrust  upon  him;  an 
awakening  follows  and  in  the  end  he  works  out  a  solution. 
A  FAR  COUNTRY.  Illustrated  by  Herman  Pfeifer. 

This  novel  is  concerned  with  big  problems  of  the  day.    As  The 
Inside  of  the  Cup  gets  down  to  the  essentials  in  its  discussion  of  re- 
ligion, so  A  Par  Country  deals  in  a  story  that  is  intense  and  dra- 
matic, with  other  vital  issues  confronting  the  twentieth  century. 
A  MODERN  CHRONICLE.    Illustrated  by  J.  H.  Gardner  Soper. 

This,  Mr.   Churchill's  first  great  presentation  of  the  Eternal 
Feminine,  is  throughout  a  profound  study  of  a  fascinating  young 
American  woman.    It  is  frankly  a  modern  love  story. 
MR.  CREWE'S  CAREER.     Illus.  by  A.  I.  Keller  and  Kinneys. 

A  new  England  state  is  under  the  political  domination  of  a  rail- 
way and  Mr.  Crewe,  a  millionaire,  seizes  a  moment  when  the  cause 
of  the  people  is  being  espoused  by  an  ardent  young  attorney,  to  fur- 
ther his  own  interest  in  a  political  way.  The  daughter  of  the  rail- 
way president  plays  no  small  part  in  the  situation. 
THE  CROSSING.  Illustrated  by  S.  Adamson  and  L.  Baylis. 

Describing  the  battle  of  Port  Moultrie,  the  blazing  of  the  Ken- 
tucky wilderness,  the  expedition  of  Clark  and  his  handful  of  follow- 
ers m  Illinois,  the  beginning  of   civilization  along  the  Ohio  and 
Mississippi,  and  the  treasonable  schemes  against  Washington. 
CONISTON.    Illustrated  by  Florence  Scovel  Shinn. 

A  deft  blending  of  love  and  politics.    A  New  Englander  is  the 
hero,  a  crude  man  who  rose  to  political  prominence  by  his  own  pow- 
ers, and  then  surrendered  all  for  the  love  of  a  woman. 
THE  CELEBRITY.    An  episode. 

An  inimitable  bit  of  comedy  describing  an  interchange  of  per- 
sonalities between  a  celebrated  author  and  a  bicycle  salesman.    It 
is  the  purest,  keenest  fun — and  is  American  to  the  core. 
THE  CRISIS.    Illustrated  with  scenes  from  the  Photo-Play. 

A  book  that  presents  the  great  crisis  in  our  national  life  with 
splendid  power  and  with  a  sympathy,  a  sincerity,  and  a  patriotism 
that  are  inspiring. 
RICHARD  CARVEL.    Illustrated  by  Malcolm  Frazer. 

An  historical  novel  which  gives  a  real  and  vivid  picture  of  Co- 
lonial times,  and  is  good,  clean,  spirited  reading  in  all  its  phases  and 
interesting  throughout. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,      PUBLISHERS,     NEW  YORK 


ZANE  GREY'S  NOVELS 

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THE  LIGHT  OF  WESTERN  STARS 
Colored  frontispiece  by  W.  Herbert  Dunton. 

Most  of  the  action  of  this  story  takes  place  near  the  turbulent 
Mexican  border  of  the  present  day.  A  New  York  society  girl  buys 
a  ranch  which  becomes  the  center  of  frontier  warfare.  Her  loyal 
cowboys  defend  her  property  from  bandits,  and  her  superintendent 
rescues  her  when  she  is  captured  by  them.  A  surprising  climax 
brings  the  story  to  a  delightful  close. 

DESERT  GOLD 

Illustrated  by  Douglas  Duer. 

Another  fascinating  story  of  the  Mexican  border.    Two  men, 
lost  in  the  desert,  discover  gold  when,  overcome  by  weakness,  they 
can  go  no  farther.  The  rest  of  the  story  describes  the  recent  uprising 
along  the  border,  and  ends  with  the  finding  of  the  gold  which  the 
two  prospectors  had  willed  to  the  girl  who  is  the  story's  heroine. 
RIDERS  OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE 
Illustrated  by  Douglas  Duer. 

A  picturesque  romance  of  Utah  of  some  forty  years  ago  when 
Mormon  authority  ruled.  In  the  persecution  of  Jane  Withersteen,  a 
rich  ranch  owner,  we  are  permitted  to  see  the  methods  employed  by 
the  invisible  hand  of  the  Mormon  Church  to  break  her  will. 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  PLAINSMEN 
Illustrated  with  photograph  reproductions. 

This  is  the  record  of  a  trip  which  the  author  took  with  Buffalo 
Jones,  known  as  the  preserver  of  the  American  bison,  across  the 
Arizona  desert  and  of  a  hunt  in  "that  wonderful  country  of  yellow 
crags,  deep  canons  and  giant  pines."  It  is  a  fascinating  story. 

THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  DESERT 

Jacket  in  color.     Frontispiece. 

This  big  human  drama  is  played  in  the  Painted  Desert.    A 
lovely  girl,  who  has  been  reared  among  Mormons,  learns  to  love  & 
young  New  Englander.    The  Mormon  religion,  however,  demands 
that  the  girl  shall  become  the  second  wife  of  one  of  the  Mormons- 
Well,  that's  the  problem  of  this  sensational,  big  selling  story. 

BETTY  ZANE 
Illustrated  by  Louis  F.  Grant. 

This  story  tells  of  the  bravery  and  heroism  of  Betty,  the  beauti- 
ful young  sister  of  old  Colonel  Zane,  one  of  the  bravest  pioneers. 
Life  along  the  frontier,  attacks  by  Indians,  Betty's  heroic  defense 
of  the  beleaguered  garrison  at  Wheeling,  the  burning  of  the  Fort, 
and  Betty's  final  race  for  life,  make  up  this  never-to-be-forgotten  story. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,    PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK 


STORIES  OF  RARE  CHARM  BY 

GENE  STRATTON-PORTER 

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THE  HARVESTER. 


LADDIE. 

Illustrated  by  Herman  Pfeifer. 

This  is  a  bright,  cheery  tale  with  thaf, 
scenes  laid  in  Indiana.  The  story  is  tol<3 
by  Little  Sister,  the  youngest  member  of 
a  large  family,  but  it  is  concerned  not  so 
much  with  childish  doings  as  with  the  love 
affairs  of  older  members  of  the  family. 
Chief  among  them  is  that  of  Laddie,  the 
older  brother  whom  Little  Sister  adores, 
and  the  Princess,  an  English  girl  who  has 
come  to  live  in  the  neighborhood  and  about 
whose  family  there  hangs  a  mystery., 
There  is  a  wedding  midway  in  the  book 
and  a  double  wedding  at  the  close. 
Illustrated  by  W.  L.  Jacobs. 


"The  Harvester,"  David  Langston,  is  e  man  of  the  woods  and 
fields,  who  draws  his  living  from  the  prodigal  hand  of  Mother 
Nature  herself.  If  the  book  had  nothing  in  it  but  the  splendid  figure 
of  this  man  it  would  be  notable.  But  when  the  Girl  conies  to  his 
"Medicine  Woods,"  and  the  Harvester's  whole  being  realizes  that 
this  is  the  highest  point  of  life  which  has  come  to  him — there  begins 
a  romance  of  the  rarest  idyllic  quality. 
FRECKLES,  Decorations  by  E.  Stetson  Crawford. 

Freckles  is  a  nameless  waif  when  the  tale  opens,  but  the  way  la 
which  he  takes  hold  of  life;  the  nature  friendships  he  forms  in  the 
great  Limberlost  Swamp;  the  manner  in  which  everyone  who  meets 
him  succumbs  to  the  charm  of  his  engaging  personality;  and  his 
love-story  with  "The  Angel"  are  full  of  real  sentiment. 
A  GIRL  OF  THE  LIMBERLOST. 
Illustrated  by  Wladyslaw  T.  Brenda. 

The  story  of  a  girl  of  the  Michigan  woods;  a  buoyant,  lovable 
type  of  the  self-reliant  American.  Her  philosophy  is  one  of  love  and 
Jnndness  towards  all  things;  her  hope  is  never  dimmed.  And  by  the 
Sheer  beauty  of  her  soul,  and  the  purity  of  her  vision,  she  wins  fronj 
barren  and  unpromising  surroundings  those  rewards  of  high  courage 
AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  RAINBOW. 
Illustrations  in  colors  by  Oliver  Kemp. 

The  scene  of  this  charming  love  story  is  laid  In  Central  Indiana. 
The  story  is  one  of  devoted  friendship,  and  tender  self-sacrificing 
love.  The  novel  is  brimful  of  the  most  beautiful  word  painting  of 
nature,  and  its  pathos  and  tender  sentiment  will  endear  it  to  all. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,     PUBLISHERS,     NEW  YORK 


GROSSET&  DUN  LAP'S 

DRAMATIZED    NOVELS 

THE   KIND   THAT   ARE   MAKING   THEATRICAL   HISTORY 
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WITHIN  THE  LAW.     By  Bayard  Veiller  &  Mama  Dana. 
Illustrated  by  Wm.  Charles  Cooke. 

This  is  a  novelization  of  the  immensely  successful  play  which  ran 
for  two  years  in  New  York  and  Chicago. 

The  plot  of  this  powerful  novel  is  of  a  young  woman's  revenge 
directed  against  her  employer  who  allowed  her  to  be  sent  to  prison 
for  three  years  on  a  charge  of  theft,  of  which  she  was  innocent 

WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  MARY.     By  Robert  Carlton  Brown. 
Illustrated  with  scenes  from  the  play. 

This  is  a  narrative  of  a  young  and  innocent  country  girl  who  is 
Suddenly  thrown  into  the  very  heart  of  New  York,  "the  land  of  her 
dreams,  where  she  is  exposed  to  all  sorts  of  temptations  and  dangers. 

The  story  of  Mary  is  being  told  in  moving  pictures  and  played  in 
theatres  all  over  the  world. 

THE  RETURN  OT  PETER  GRIMM.    'By  David  Belasco. 
Illustrated  by  John  Rae, 

This  is  a  novelization  of  the  popular  play  in  which  David  War, 
field,  as  Old  Peter  Grimm,  scored  such  a  remarkable  success. 

The  story  is  spectacular  and  extremely  pathetic  but  withal, 
powerful,  both  as  a  book  and  as  a  play. 
THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH.    By  Robert  Hichens.: 

This  novel  is  an  intense,  glowing  epic  of  the  great  desert,  sunlit 
barbaric,  with  its  marvelous  atmosphere  of  vastness  and  loneliness. 

It  is  a  book  of  rapturous  beauty,  vivid  in  word  painting.    The  play 
has  been  staged  with  magnificent  cast  and  gorgeous  properties. 
BEN    HUR.    A  Tale  of  the  Christ    By  General  Lew  Wallace. 

The  whole  world  has  placed  this  famous  Religious-Historical  Ro- 
mance on  a  height  of  pre-eminence  which  no  other  novel  of  its  time 
has  reached.  The  clashing  of  rivalry  and  the  deepest  human  passions, 
the  perfect  reproduction  of  brilliant  Roman  life,  and  the  tense,  fierce 
atmosphere  of  the  arena  have  kept  their  deep  fascination.  A  tre- 
mendous dramatic  success. 

BOUGHT  AlSiD  PAID  FOR.     By  George  Broadhurst  and  Arthiu 
Hornblow.          Illustrated  with  scenes  from  the  play. 

A  stupendous  arraignment  of  modern  marriage  which  has  created 

an  interest  on  the  stage  that  is  almost  unparalleled.  The  scenes  are  laid 

in  New  York,  and  deal  with  conditions  among  both  the  rich  and  poor. 

o  The  interest  of  the  story  turns  on  the  day-by-day  developments 

which  show  the  young  wife  the  price  she  has  paid. _ 

Ask  for  compete  fret  Jfst  of  G.  &  D.  Popular  Cofryrigfud  Fiction 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST..  NEW  YORK 


GROSSET  &    DUNLAP'S 

DRAMATIZED  NOVELS 

Original,  sincere  and  courageous — often  amusing — the 
kind  that  are  making  theatrical  history. 

MADAME  X.    By  Alexandra  Bisson  and  J.  W.  McCon-, 
aughy.      Illustrated    with    scenes   from    the    play* 
A  beautiful  Parisienne  became  an  outcast  because  her  hus- 
band would  not  forgive  an  error  of  her  youth.    Her  love  for 
her  son  is  the  great  final  influence  in  her  career.    A  tremen- 
dous dramatic  success. 

THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH.    By  Robert  Hichens. 

An  unconventional  English  woman  and  an  inscrutable 
stranger  meet  and  love  in  an  oasis  of  the  Sahara.  Staged 
this  season  with  magnificent  cast  and  gorgeous  properties. 

THE  PRINCE  OF  INDIA.    By  Lew.  Wallace. 

A  glowing  romance  of  the  Byzantine  Empire,  presenting 
with  extraordinary  power  the  siege  of  Constantinople,  and 
lighting  its  tragedy  with  the  warm  underglow  of  an  Oriental 
romance.  As  a  play  it  is  a  great  dramatic  spectacle. 

TESS  OF    THE    STORM    COUNTRY.     By  Grace 

Miller  White.     Illust.  by  Howard  Chandler  Christy. 

A  girl  from  the  dregs  of  society,  loves  a  young  Cornell  Uni-' 

versity  student,  and  it  works  startling  changes  in  her  life  and' 

the  lives  of  those  about  her.    The  dramatic  version  is  one  of 

the  sensations  of  the  season. 

YOUNG    WALLINGFORD.     By  George    Randolph 
Chester.     Illust.  by  F.  R.  Gruger  and  Henry  Raleigh. 

A  series  of  clever  swindles  conducted  by  a  cheerful  young 
man,  each  of  which  is  just  on  the  safe  side  of  a  State's  prison 
offence.  As  "Get-Rich-Quick  Wallingford,"  it  is  probably 
the  most  amusing  expose  of  money  manipulation  ever  seen 
on  the  stage. 

THE  INTRUSION  OF  JIMMY.    By  P.  G.  Wode-' 

house.    Illustrations  by  Will  Grefe. 
Social  and  club  life  in  London  and  New  York,  an  amateur 
burglary  adventure  and  a  love  story.    Dramatized  under  the 
title  of  "A  Gentleman  of  Leisure,"  it  furnishes  hours  of 
laughter  to  the  play-goers. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


NOVELS  OF  FRONTIER  LIFE  BY 

WILLIAM  MacLEOD   RAINE 

HANDSOMELY  BOUND  IN  CLOTH.     ILLUSTRATED. 
'       May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grosset  and  Dunlap's  list 

MAVERICKS. 

A  tale  of  the  western  frontier,  where  the  "rustler,"  whose  dep- 
redations are  so  keenly  resented  by  the  early  settlers  of  the  range, 
abounds.  One  of  the  sweetest  love  stories  ever  told.y 

A  TEXAS  RANGER. 

How  a  member  of  the  most  dauntless  border  police  force  carried 
law  into  the  mesquit,  saved  the  life  of  an  innocent  man  after  a  series 
of  thrilling  adventures,  followed  a  fugitive  to  Wyoming,  and  then 
passed  through  deadly  peril  to  ultimate  happiness.  M 

WYOMING. 

In  this  vivid  story  of  the  outdoor  West  the  author  has  captured 
the  breezy  charm  of  "cattleland,"  and  brings  out  the  turbid  life  of 
the  frontier  with  all  its  engaging  dash  and  vigor. 

RIDGWAY  OF  MONTANA. 

The  scene  is  laid  in  the  mining  centers  of  Montana,  where  poli- 
tics and  mining  industries  are  the  religion  of  the  country.  The 
political  contest,  the  love  scene,  and  the  fine  character  drawing  give 
this  story  great  strength  and  charm,  t 

BUCKY  O'CONNOR. 

Every  chapter  teems  with  [wholesome,  stirring  adventures,  re- 
plete  with  the  dashing  spirit  of  the  border,  told  with  dramatic  dar!l 
and  absorbing  fascination  of  style  and  plot. 

'CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT. 

A  story  of  Arizona;  of  swift-riding  men  and  daring  outlaws;  of 
a  bitter  feud  between  cattle-men  and  sheep-herders.  The  heroine 
Is  a  most  unusual  woman  and  her  love  story  reaches  a  culmination 
that  is  fittingly  characteristic  of  the  great  free  West. 

BRAND  BLOTTERS. 

A  r.tory  of  the  Cattle  Range.  This  story  brings  out  the  turbid 
life  of  the  frontier,  with  all  its  engaging  dash  and  vigor,  with  a  charm- 
ing love  interest  running  through  its  320  pages. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,     PUBLISHERS,      NEW  YORK 


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